L- 


38 j>  C.  panforfc 


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HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


BY  C.  HANFOKD  HENDEKSON 

Author  of  John  Percyfield,  etc. 


"The  universe  belongs  to  him  who 
loves,  who  wills,  who  prays;  but  he 
must  love,  he  must  will,  he  must  pray." 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(OTbe  ttiterjtftie  prcstf 
1908 


CONTENTS 

I.  FATE  INTERVENES 1 

II.  AT  SEA  ..        .        .        .       f        .        .        .        16 

III.  UNDER  THE  STARS    .    .    .        .        .        .        .        .34 

IV.  THE  PASS  OF  LLANBERIS      .        .                .        .        50 
V.  IN  THE  CLOUDS 77 

VI.  THE  OPEN  ROAD 91 

VII.  ADRIFT        .  •     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .113 

VIII.  AT  YORK  MINSTER        .        .        ...       .134 

IX.  ROBERT'S  LOVE-LETTER     .  .        .        .        .158 

X.  INWARD  VOYAGES  .......      174 

XI.  NEW  ENVIRONMENTS.        .       .        .        .        .        .  190 

XII.  PAULINE.        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .211 

XIII.  ROBERT  CULTIVATES  HIS  IMAGINATION     .        .        .  236 

XIV.  GREAT  NEWS  FROM  BOLTON 254 

XV.  THE  UNEXPECTED       .        .        .        .  .        .  273 

XVI.  COCUMELLA     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .290 

XVII.  OLD  ACQUAINTANCES  BECOME  NEW  FRIENDS  .        .  308 

XVIII.  ALICIA     .  331 

XIX.  ROBERT  CHOOSES  A  PROFESSION        .        .        .        .  360 

XX.  THE  NAKED  HORSEMAN         .        .        .        .        .383 

XXI.  SAPPHO'S  FINAL  JUDGMENT       .        .        .        .        .  404 

vii 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 

CHAPTER  I 
FATE  INTERVENES 

AT  thirty-four,  Robert  Pendexter  had  not  done  anything, 
and  nothing  had  happened  to  him.  He  passed  as  a  good 
man,  but  this  was  rather  a  negative  reputation,  for  he 
had  never  been  put  to  any  severe  test.  He  passed  as  a 
useful  man,  but  this  was  because  the  standard  of  useful 
ness  had  never  been  critically  examined.  He  passed  for  a 
companionable  man,  but  this  was  among  persons  who  were 
socially  not  exacting. 

Had  one  told  the  plain  truth  about  Robert,  one  would 
have  said  that  he  was  commonplace,  that  he  was  inoffen 
sive,  and  that  he  was  asleep.  If  Robert  had  died,  then,  at 
thirty-four,  he  would  have  been  temperately  mourned  by 
a  small  group  of  friends,  but  not  even  his  nearest  and 
least  indifferent  relative,  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter, 
would  have  thought  of  writing  an  obituary  notice  of  him 
for  the  "  Evening  Transcript."  Robert  would  have  passed 
on,  one  more  amorphous,  unchiseled  soul,  to  the  waiting- 
hall  of  souls.  But  Robert  did  not  die  at  thirty-four,  and 
shortly  after  he  had  reached  that  birthday,  something  did 
happen.  Indeed,  two  things  happened.  Either  one  of  them 
alone  would  hardly  have  affected  the  outer  current  of 
Robert's  life,  but  coming  as  they  did  in  conjunction,  as 
our  astronomical  friends  would  say,  Robert  was  brought 
to  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road  which  carried  him  into  regions 

1 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 

and  adventures  quite  undreamed  of  before.  In  the  first 
place,  Robert  lost  his  health,  as  he  himself  phrased  it ;  and 
in  the  second  place,  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  suddenly 
died  and  left  him  heir  to  a  property  which  yielded  a  trifle 
over  six  thousand  a  year. 

As  I  have  said,  neither  event  alone  would  have  shaken 
Eobert  out  of  the  ordinary.  Had  he  merely  lost  his  health, 
his  New  England  conscience  would  have  kept  him  at  his 
clerk's  desk  in  Doane  Street,  and  the  coffee  and  spice 
trade  would  have  known  him  to  the  end.  Had  he  merely 
fallen  heir  to  his  Aunt  Matilda's  tidy  little  fortune,  he 
would  perhaps  have  moved  his  bachelor  quarters  from 
Pinckney  Street  to  the  Back  Bay ;  would  have  dressed  a 
little  better ;  would  have  done  his  shopping  on  Boylston 
Street  instead  of  Washington ;  would  have  been  consid 
erably  more  charitable;  and  would  perhaps  have  flown 
farther  afield  during  his  annual  two  weeks'  vacation.  But 
that  would  have  been  all.  For  the  rest,  he  would  have 
remained  a  junior  clerk  until  he  got  to  be  a  senior  clerk, 
and  a  senior  clerk  until  he  got  to  be  a  junior  partner,  and 
a  junior  partner  until  he  got  to  be  a  senior  partner,  and  a 
senior  partner  until  he  died  of  ennui.  But  coming  as  they 
did,  at  the  same  moment,  the  loss  of  his  health  and  the 
unexpected  acquisition  of  an  income,  even  Robert's  well- 
established  inertia  was  powerless  to  keep  him  in  quite  the 
same  rut.  The  income  was  ample,  —  it  was  five  times 
what  he  had  ever  received  from  Messrs.  Watson  and 
Reed,  Coffee  and  Spice  Merchants,  —  and  it  would  have 
seemed  to  Robert  like  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence 
not  to  have  used  a  part  of  this  income  to  go  in  search  of 
the  thing  that  was  lost. 

2 


FATE  INTERVENES 


In  reality,  Robert  had  lost  far  less  than  he  thought  he 
had.  By  no  courtesy  could  he  be  said  to  have  possessed 
so  fair  and  sound  an  article  as  health  during  the  past 
dozen  years;  not,  indeed,  since  he  had  come  into  business 
relations  with  Messrs.  Watson  and  Reed.  What  had  really 
happened  now  was  that  the  long  hours  and  bad  air  and 
dull  life  had  begun  to  show  marked  effects,  and  a  spell 
of  east  wind  and  night-work  combined  had  precipitated 
a  genuine  nervous  breakdown.  Robert  would  have  been 
vastly  surprised  had  you  pointed  out  to  him  that  this 
breakdown,  instead  of  being  the  dire  misfortune  which  he 
pictured  it  to  be,  was  in  reality  the  one  piece  of  good  luck 
that  had  befallen  him  in  Doane  Street.  Quite  unknown 
to  himself,  he  was  really  a  valuable  person  to  Messrs. 
Watson  and  Reed.  For  the  past  four  years,  indeed,  he 
had  been  in  imminent  danger  of  a  junior  partnership. 
Just  now  the  times  were  good,  and  it  was  cheaper  to  keep 
Robert  on  a  clerk's  salary  than  to  make  him  even  a  very 
junior  partner.  But  had  profits  diminished,  or  had  Robert 
seemed  restive  in  his  clerkship,  the  older  men  were  quite 
prepared  to  add  his  name  to  their  own,  and  to  make  the 
firm  Watson,  Reed,  and  Pendexter.  To  Robert  himself  this 
would  have  seemed  high  success.  Both  Mr.  Watson  and 
Mr.  Reed  regarded  the  matter  quite  as  good  as  settled, 
for  to  both,  Robert  seemed  too  docile  and  too  little  adven 
turous  ever  to  break  away  from  the  toils  of  the  coffee  and 
spice  trade. 

But  these  amiable  plans  were  all  destined  to  be  upset, 
and  this,  not  because  of  the  breakdown  and  not  because 
of  the  legacy,  but  solely,  as  I  have  said,  because  they  hap 
pened  to  fall  in  conjunction. 

3 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


Mr.  Watson  was  away  at  the  time,  and  perhaps  that 
also  had  something  to  do  with  it.  He  would  never  have 
given  up  so  useful  a  person  as  Robert  without  a  pretty 
stiff  fight,  for  Mr.  Watson  was  made  of  sterner  stuff  than 
Mr.  Reed,  and  could  argue  with  power  when  his  own  inter 
ests  were  concerned.  The  less  redoubtable  Mr.  Reed  was 
at  home,  but  too  busy,  and  too  irritated  by  the  amount  of 
extra  work  that  fell  on  his  own  shoulders,  to  go  to  see 
Robert  personally.  It  is  true  that  he  sent  around  to  Pinck- 
ney  Street  every  day  to  inquire  how  the  sick  man  fared, 
but  the  attention  was  too  impersonal  and  too  obviously 
perfunctory  to  make  any  impression  upon  even  so  little 
exacting  a  person  as  Robert.  To  do  Mr.  Reed  justice,  he 
did  not  know  about  the  legacy,  and  regarded  Robert's 
absence  as  temporary.  Robert  was  too  inexperienced  to 
understand  just  how  profoundly  Messrs.  Watson  and  Reed 
were  exploiting  his  youth  for  their  own  profit,  and  much 
too  amiable  to  wish  them  any  harm ;  but  in  reality  they 
both  came  to  a  bad  end,  —  they  both  remained  in  Doane 
Street. 

It  was  now  the  first  of  September.  Robert  had  been  ill 
for  ten  days,  and  was  just  beginning  to  get  downstairs 
again,  and  to  take  very  short  and  rather  forlorn  little 
walks  in  the  Public  Garden.  On  one  of  these  occasions, 
he  managed  to  get  to  the  doctor's  office  on  Marlborough 
Street,  but  so  pale  and  weak  that  Dr.  Cheney  did  at  once 
what  he  had  meant  to  do  all  along.  He  forbade  Robert's 
return  to  Doane  Street  on  pain  of  very  dreadful  things 
happening  to  him,  and  ordered  him  in  peremptory  fashion 
to  get  out  of  town  for  at  least  a  year.  Then  he  added, 
almost  roughly,  "  If  you  know  how  to  play,  for  Heaven's 

4 


FATE   INTERVENES 


sake,  man,  do  it !  There  's  nothing  the  matter  with  you 
but  too  much  work." 

Robert  was  still  too  weak  to  travel  immediately,  so  Dr. 
Cheney  suggested  a  sea-trip,  with  Europe  at  the  end.  It 
was  quite  useless  for  Robert  to  resist.  Almost  before  he 
knew  it,  the  masterful  doctor  had  telephoned  down  to  the 
steamship  company  and  bespoken  a  berth  on  the  Republic, 
Boston  to  Liverpool.  She  was  to  sail  on  the  7th.  Mean 
while  Robert  was  ordered  to  eat  all  he  could,  to  take  a  short 
walk  every  morning  in  the  Garden,  and  in  the  afternoon  to 
drive  for  an  hour  or  two  in  a  rubber-tired  victoria  that  the 
doctor  promised  to  select  himself  at  Kenny  and  Clark's. 
Moreover,  the  doctor  wrote  out  Robert's  resignation  from 
Watson  and  Reed's,  and  made  it  so  emphatic  that  even  Mr. 
Watson,  when  he  came  home,  did  not  venture  to  protest. 

Robert  was  one  of  those  methodical  persons  whose  clothes 
and  whose  affairs  are  always  in  proper  order.  Beyond  pay 
ing  his  landlady,  buying  a  steamer  rug,  making  out  the 
necessary  cheque  for  the  steamship  company,  and  provid 
ing  himself  with  a  letter  of  credit  from  State  Street,  he 
had  little  to  do  to  prepare  for  this  unexpected,  and  for 
him  quite  unheard-of  adventure.  In  spite  of  the  doctor's 
contrary  orders,  Robert  did  write  a  few  brief  notes.  He 
had  to  tell  the  cousins  at  Bolton  that  he  was  going  away, 
and  explain  to  them  that  he  was  too  ill  to  get  out  and  bid 
them  good-by  in  person.  Little  as  he  ever  went  there, 
Bolton  was  still  his  home.  Then  he  had  to  write  notes  to 
the  few  friends  to  whom  his  going  away  would  be  of  any 
interest.  One  of  these  notes  was  to  Stephen  Morse,  a  young 
lawyer  whom  he  had  known  slightly  at  King's  Chapel,  and 
with  whom  he  had  been  associated  in  one  or  two  church 

5 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


matters.   It  had  the  immediate  effect  of  bringing  Stephen 
around  to  Robert's  boarding-house. 

Stephen  was  a  much  more  robust  person  than  Robert. 
He  had  already  grown  a  little  bald,  was  distinctly  putting 
on  flesh,  and  had  the  general  air  of  being  in  line  for  a 
judgeship.  He  was  younger  than  liobert  by  at  least  six 
years,  but  when  the  two  were  together,  it  was  always 
Stephen  that  you  turned  to  first,  either  to  salute  or  to  con 
sult,  for  he  seemed  the  more  mature,  really  the  older  of 
the  two.  Just  why  he  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  so  shy  and 
unimpressive  a  man  as  Robert,  it  would  have  puzzled 
Robert  to  say,  —  and  perhaps  even  Stephen  himself.  But 
that  he  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  him  was  quite  evident 
to  all  who  saw  them  together.  On  this  particular  afternoon 
in  early  September,  Stephen  came  racing  up  the  stairs, 
two  steps  at  a  time,  and  burst  into  Robert's  shabby  little 
room  without  so  much  as  knocking.  Robert  was  lying 
down,  and  looked  very  frail  and  delicate.  He  started  to 
rise  when  Stephen  appeared.  "  Don't  get  up !  "  commanded 
Stephen.  "  Don't  stir,  or  I  '11  go  right  away !  " 

Robert  sank  back  on  the  pillow  and  held  out  his  hand, 
smiling.  "  That  would  be  too  bad,"  he  said,  "  when  I  'm 
so  glad  to  see  you." 

Stephen  took  the  outstretched  hand,  his  gentle  manner 
and  voice  in  curious  contrast  with  his  almost  boisterous 
words.  "Why  in  thunder  didn't  you  send  for  me,  old 
man  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  I  did  n't  even  know  you  were  sick. 
I  have  n't  seen  you  for  a  week  or  so,  but  I  thought  you 
were  off  on  your  vacation.  I  've  been  so  all-fired  busy  my 
self,  I  had  n't  a  chance  to  look  you  up.  You  don't  play 
fair,  little  Pen.  By  Jove,  you  don't !  " 

6 


FATE   INTERVENES 


It  always  touched  Robert  deeply  to  have  Stephen  call 
him  "  little  Pen."  Stephen  was  the  only  one  of  his  few 
friends  who  cared  enough  for  him  to  have  a  nickname  for 
him.  Robert  put  out  his  hand  shyly  and  laid  it  on  Ste 
phen's.  "  I  thought  I  'd  be  well  everyday,"  he  explained; 
"  I  had  no  notion  that  I  was  really  sick." 

"  And  you  're  actually  going  away  for  a  whole  year  ?  " 
asked  Stephen,  incredulously.  "  You  are  n't  giving  Wat 
son  and  Reed  the  go-by,  are  you?  " 

Robert  nodded.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  've  pulled  out  of 
Doane  Street  for  good  and  all !  "  It  gave  him  great  plea 
sure  to  announce  this,  for  Stephen,  of  State  Street,  was 
disposed  to  say  rather  disparaging  things  of  the  men  and 
doings  in  Doane  Street. 

"Whew!  "  cried  Stephen.  "That  is  news.  Where  on 
earth  are  you  going  ?  Not  to  your  cousins  out  at  Bolton  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Robert,  "  I  am  not  going  out  to  Boltou. 
I  am  off  on  a  much  longer  journey  than  that !  " 

The  thought  flashed  through  Stephen's  mind  that  per 
haps  Robert  meant  that  he  was  going  to  die.  He  gazed  at 
his  friend  apprehensively.  Robert  caught  the  look  and 
divined  its  meaning.  "  No,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  I  'm  not 
going  to  die,  —  at  least  not  yet.  I  am  going  to  Europe  ! ' 

"  To  Europe ! "  echoed  Stephen,  eagerly.  "  By  all  that 's 
good,  —  not  on  the  Canadian,  next  Wednesday  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Robert,  "on  the  Republic,  on  Thursday. 
But  why  did  you  say  the  Canadian  ?  Do  you  know  any 
one  going  on  her  ?  " 

"I  was  going  on  her,  myself,"  replied  Stephen.  "  Don 
ald  Fergusson  and  I  are  booked  for  her,  but  we  '11  just 
have  to  shift  over  to  the  Republic,  that 's  all.  It  will  be 

7 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


easy  enough.  They  are  all  about  empty  at  this  time  of  year. 
But,  say,  that 's  the  greatest  luck  on  earth !  Let 's  shake 
on  it." 

Robert's  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  "  How  good  you 
are  ! "  he  said.  "  Now,  I  shall  want  to  go.  I  've  been  rather 
dreading  it." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  answered  Stephen.  "  Those  doctors 
are  brutes,  anyhow  !  They  let  a  man  get  as  sick  as  he  can 
get  without  throwing  up  the  sponge,  and  then  they  send 
him  off,  all  alone,  anywhere  on  God's  earth,  and  expect 
him  to  get  well,  just  because  they  tell  him  to  !  By  gum, 
I  'd  like  to  give  them  some  of  their  own  medicine." 

"  I  can't  let  you  say  anything  against  Dr.  Cheney," 
protested  Robert.  "He's  been  awfully  good  to  me.  He  is 
almost  as  kind  as  you  are.  But  will  you  tell  me,  please, 
how  you  happen  to  be  going  to  Europe  and  who  Donald 
Fergusson  is?" 

"Sure.  I  happen  to  be  going  to  Europe  because  I 
happen  to  want  to  !  " 

Both  laughed.  "An  excellent  reason,"  said  Robert. 
"But  what  does  the  old  man  say  about  it?  " 

"  Bigelow  ?  Oh,  he  's  really  very  decent  about  it.  He 
says  to  go  if  I  must,  but  not  to  let  it  be  over  four  weeks. 
That  means  that  I  shall  stay  five  or  six." 

"  The  longer  the  better,"  cried  Robert,  in  a  cheerier 
voice  than  had  been  his  for  some  weeks.  "Now  tell  me 
about  Donald  Fergusson.  Who  is  he?" 

"You  ought  to  know  without  any  telling,"  answered 
Stephen,  enthusiastically.  "  Where  are  your  eyes  ?  Don't 
you  read  the  magazines  ?  Donald  is  in  most  every  one  of 
them.  He  is  the  coming  poet  of  America.  The  big  guns 

8 


FATE   INTERVENES 


all  say  so.  And  a  mighty  nice  lad  into  the  bargain.  We 
roomed  together  at  Cambridge  my  senior  year,  and  all  the 
time  I  was  in  the  Law  School.  Donald  's  all  right,  really 
a  ripping  good  fellow.  And  he  '11  be  glad  to  have  you  join 
us.  He  's  to  stay  over  a  year." 

"  You  think  I  won't  be  a  gooseberry  ?  "  Robert  ques 
tioned  doubtfully. 

"A  gooseberry?"  said  Stephen.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  But  if  you  mean  a  fellow  that 's  in  the  way,  I 
am  sure  you  won't.  You  and  Donald  will  get  on  famously." 

44  Has  he  been  over  before  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

44  No,  never.  It  will  mean  a  lot  for  him.  He  has  a  whole 
year's  leave  of  absence,  the  lucky  dog !  " 

44  A  whole  year's  leave  of  absence,"  Robert  repeated. 
44  Leave  of  absence  from  what,  —  writing  poetry  ?  " 

44  Donald  Fergusson  !  "  exclaimed  Stephen.  44  Well,  I 
should  say  not !  He  wants  the  year  so  as  to  write  more 
poetry.  He's  the  year  off  from  his  school.  He  teaches 
down  South.  You  did  n't  suppose  he  lived  on  his  poetry, 
did  you,  and  was  going  to  Europe  on  his  royalties  ?  "  And 
Stephen  laughed  incredulously. 

44 1  did  n't  know,"  Robert  answered  simply ;  44 1  thought 
perhaps  he  had  an  income,  and  could  do  as  he  pleased." 

Then  he  flushed  a  little,  for  having  an  income  and  doing 
as  he  pleased  was  still  so  novel  a  sensation  in  his  own  case, 
that  the  mere  mention  of  a  similar  possibility  for  another 
man  seemed  a  bit  like  boasting. 

Stephen  dispelled  the  feeling  in  an  instant  by  saying 
quite  brusquely,  44No  more  income  than  you  have.  He 
works  for  what  he  has." 

Robert  would  have  much  preferred  to  let  the  matter 

9 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


drop  there,  but  his  New  England  conscience  made  him  add 
rather  uncomfortably,  "  But  I  have  an  income,  you  know ; 
I  don't  work  any  longer  for  what  I  have."  Robert  said 
this  quite  humbly,  almost  as  if  ashamed  of  the  fact. 

"You  are  a  sly  one,"  said  Stephen,  in  surprise,  and 
looking  Robert  over  as  if  he  appeared  for  the  first  time 
in  quite  a  new  light.  "A  capitalist  incognito,  and  passing 
yourself  off  for  an  honest  workingman!  I  like  that!  What 
ever  possessed  you  to  stay  down  in  that  old  hole  in  Doane 
Street  all  these  years  ?  " 

"  I  had  to  make  my  living  then,"  said  Robert.  "  Now  I 
don't.  My  Aunt  Matilda  left  me  most  of  her  property,  and 
now  I  have  enough  to  live  on,  —  really  more  than  enough." 

Stephen  had  been  looking  out  of  the  window.  He  came 
back  to  the  bed,  and  said  without  any  trace  of  the  old 
banter,  "  I  congratulate  you,  little  Pen.  To  be  as  young  as 
you  are ;  to  have  the  wolf  bought  off  pretty  permanently ; 
to  have  the  world  before  you,  at  your  beck  and  call,  so  to 
speak,  you  ought  to  do  great  things.  What  a  chance  !  " 

Robert  answered  very  earnestly, "  I  don't  know,  Stephen. 
It 's  all  so  new,  and  the  last  few  days  I  've  felt  so  low  in 
my  mind.  I  really  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  'm  better  fitted 
for  Doane  Street  than  I  am  for  a  bigger  world.  I  'm  not 
clever,  you  know.  I  've  never  had  a  college  education.  In 
deed,  I  haven't  had  much  of  any  education  at  all.  I  am 
just  a  coffee  and  spice  clerk  laid  on  the  shelf  awhile.  It 
may  be  too  late  to  make  anything  else  out  of  me." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  "  cried  Stephen.  "  You  don't 
know  what  you  can  do,  and  sick  folks  are  pretty  poor 
judges  anyway.  Now  I  'm  perfectly  well,  and  being  of  a 
sound  and  disposing  mind,  as  we  make  the  testator  say  in 

10 


FATE   INTERVENES 


his  will,  I  should  affirm  that  on  the  whole  you  're  a  pretty 
nice  sort  of  boy.  And  I  don't  think  you  're  dull,  little  Pen, 
really  I  don't !  I  '11  bet  a  big  apple  you  make  something 
out  of  it." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Robert.  His  earnestness  arrested 
Stephen's  attention,  and  made  him  see  how  deeply  Robert 
was  moved  by  this  complete  upheaval  in  his  old  life. 

Just  then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  simply 
the  new  steamer  rug  from  Hovey's,  but  it  was  a  fortunate 
interruption,  for  it  set  the  friends  to  talking  about  the 
practical  matters  connected  with  their  trip.  Stephen,  as 
the  more  experienced  traveler,  had  many  suggestions  to 
make,  and  he  was  careful  to  steer  the  conversation  away 
from  all  serious  subjects.  When  he  finally  left,  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  that  Robert  was  immensely  cheered 
up.  Stephen  would  much  have  liked  to  possess  six  thou 
sand  a  year.  But  he  was  level-headed,  and  knew  that  before 
long  he  would  be  making  more  than  that  himself.  He  was 
also  honest,  and  so  he  knew  that  meanwhile  he  would 
rather  be  Stephen  without  it  than  Robert  with  it. 

On  Thursday  afternoon  a  shabby  one-horse  cab  made 
its  way  through  Charlestown  to  the  steamer  pier.  A  small 
steamer  trunk  was  perched  somewhat  precariously  on  the 
box,  alongside  the  driver.  Inside  the  cab,  a  suit-case,  an 
umbrella,  a  loose  overcoat,  and  a  shawl-strap  containing 
the  new  steamer  rug  divided  the  space  somewhat  unequally 
with  the  one  passenger,  a  delicate  man  huddled  up  in  the 
corner,  and  looking  both  disturbed  and  excited.  It  was 
a  great  event  for  Mr.  Robert  Pendexter  to  be  going  to 
Europe.  It  was  not  the  prospective  voyage  which  excited 
him,  novel  as  that  promised  to  be,  but  the  break  with 

11 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


his   old  life,   which   it  emphasized  in   so  pronounced  a 
fashion. 

Robert  was  going  away  without  a  return  ticket,  some 
thing  which,  so  far  as  he  could  remember,  had  never 
happened  before  in  all  his  life.  He  had  resisted  the  allure 
ments  set  forth  by  the  clerk  at  the  steamship  office,  and 
declined  a  homeward  passage  at  ten  per  cent  reduction. 
When  the  clerk  insinuated  that  Robert  was  throwing 
away  eight  dollars,  just  throwing  it  away,  Robert  felt 
himself  that  he  was  rapidly  falling  into  the  extravagant 
ways  of  the  wealthy.  He  was  even  a  little  disturbed  that 
this  potential  loss  of  eight  good  dollars  gave  him  such 
slight  concern.  He  reflected  uncomfortably  that  his  Aunt 
Matilda  Pendexter  would  have  considered  that  he  was 
already  squandering  his  substance  in  riotous  living.  He 
had  even  hesitated  a  moment  and  turned  back,  but  it  was 
too  late.  The  clerk  was  already  booking  another  passenger, 
and  had  quite  lost  interest  in  Robert  and  his  eight  dollars. 

These  and  many  other  equally  trivial  things  went  chasing 
through  Robert's  brain  as  he  jolted  over  the  rough  cobble 
stones  of  Charlestown.  He  had  all  the  frugal  habits  of 
our  social  class,  and  very  suddenly,  without  any  interme 
diate  training,  he  found  himself  a  member  of  a  totally 
different  class.  He  felt  a  little  ill  at  ease,  and  yet,  on  the 
whole,  he  liked  the  taste  of  the  new  order  of  things.  It 
is  quite  astonishing  what  a  difference  six  thousand  a 
year  clear  income  makes  in  a  man's  outlook.  Even  the 
fact  of  riding  in  a  cab  was  still  enough  of  a  novelty  to 
come  in  for  part  of  Robert's  thought.  He  fell  to  wonder 
ing  what  the  cabman  would  charge  him,  and  chided  him 
self  a  little  for  not  asking  in  advance. 

12 


FATE   INTERVENES 


It  occurred  to  him  rather  whimsically  that  Dennis 
Sullivan,  the  office  boy  at  Watson  and  Reed's,  would 
quite  open  his  eyes  to  see  the  late  clerk  riding  along  so 
unconcernedly  in  a  cab,  and  booked  for  Liverpool,  first 
cabin.  Then  he  suddenly  remembered  that  Dennis  him 
self  was  pale  and  overworked.  His  conscience  clutched 
him  uncomfortably.  He  seemed  to  be  shaking  off  this  old 
world  of  work  in  altogether  too  light-hearted  a  fashion.  A 
multitude  of  disturbing  pictures  began  marching  through 
his  excited  brain.  He  was  ashamed  that  he  had  felt  so 
little  grieved  over  his  Aunt  Matilda's  death.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  quite  despised  himself  as  a  mercenary,  mean- 
spirited  fellow,  who  had  probably  been  waiting  all  along 
for  dead  man's  shoes.  His  sense  of  accuracy  —  Robert  had 
been  the  most  accurate  of  Watson  and  Reed's  clerks  — 
corrected  the  thought  and  made  it  read  dead  woman's 
shoes.  This  correction  aroused  his  latent  sense  of  humor, 
and  suggested  a  comparison  between  his  own  good-sized 
walking-shoes  and  his  Aunt  Matilda's  old-fashioned  elastic 
gaiters.  The  spell  of  self-abasement  was  quite  broken. 
An  excessive  conscience  has  indeed  this  saving  grace 
about  it,  that  when  it  presses  matters  much  too  far,  it  puts 
one  on  the  defensive,  and  an  aroused  self-esteem  pushes 
the  pendulum  back  to  the  vertical,  —  perhaps,  in  retali 
ation,  a  little  beyond  it. 

In  his  heart,  Robert  well  knew  that,  living  or  dead,  he 
had  never  really  cared  for  his  aunt.  In  a  flood  of  exces 
sive  honesty,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  she  had  been  a 
mean,  narrow-minded  old  woman,  and  that  even  this  leav 
ing  of  the  greater  part  of  her  fortune  to  him  was  probably 
a  mere  whim,  and  not  any  token  of  affection.  But  now 

13 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


the  pendulum  had  gone  too  far.  Robert  felt  himself  an 
ungenerous,  ungrateful  fellow  to  be  remembering  the 
faults  of  the  dead.  He  recalled  many  little  occasions  when 
his  aunt,  in  her  own  peculiar  and  narrow  way,  had  never 
theless  shown  that  she  was  genuinely  fond  of  him. 

Robert's  mind,  it  will  be  seen,  was  traveling  in  a  dreary 
circle.  It  was  fortunate  that  the  sights  and  sounds  outside 
the  cab  began  to  take  on  a  distinctly  nautical  character. 
They  attracted  Robert's  attention  and  carried  him  out  of 
himself. 

The  shabby  little  cab  made  its  way  among  a  tangle  of 
other  cabs,  express  wagons,  florists'  glass-sided  vehicles, 
and  groups  of  people  who  seemed  by  their  entire  indiffer 
ence  to  everything  in  the  way  of  horseflesh  fairly  to  invoke 
being  run  over.  But  nothing  untoward  happened.  The 
cab  finally  drew  up  at  the  foot  of  a  narrow  and  very 
steep  gang-plank,  —  the  tide  was  nearing  the  flood,  —  and 
Robert  and  his  belongings  passed  up  to  the  deck  of  the 
great  steamer,  and  then  down  to  state-room  number  68. 

Robert  had  never  been  on  an  ocean  steamer  before. 
He  was  so  interested  in  all  the  little  contrivances  that  he 
quite  forgot  how  tired  he  was.  The  cabin  seemed  to  him 
comfort  itself,  —  the  beds  a  little  narrow,  to  be  sure,  but 
everything  so  commodious  that  he  felt  again  the  luxuri- 
ousness  of  the  assuredly  wealthy.  Having  the  cabin  to 
himself  he  took  as  a  matter  of  course,  too  inexperienced 
to  know  that  such  privacy  is  sheer  good  luck  for  those 
who  pay  only  eighty  dollars  passage-money.  The  whole 
thing  appealed  to  his  sense  of  order.  He  was  the  old 
methodical  Robert  of  the  counting-room,  and  not  yet  the 
intrepid  voyager  on  new  and  untried  spiritual  seas. 

14 


FATE  INTERVENES 


Stephen  and  Donald  Fergusson  had  not  yet  come  on 
board,  but  Robert  was  too  delighted  with  a  sense  of  his 
own  snugness  to  miss  them.  He  fairly  gloated  over  his 
little  cabin.  The  steamer  trunk  just  fitted  under  the  lower 
berth.  The  suit-case  just  occupied  the  cane  seat  near  the 
door.  Umbrella,  hat,  and  overcoat  went  promptly  into  the 
small  wardrobe.  Only  the  rug  remained.  In  a  moment 
the  strap  was  unfastened,  the  rug  spread  out  on  the  sofa, 
and  Robert  sat  in  his  tiny  domain  as  pleased  as  a  child 
in  his  first  playhouse. 

According  to  the  parish  register  at  Bolton,  Robert  was 
now  thirty-four,  but  in  reality  he  was  still  extremely 
young. 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  SEA 

IT  was  the  second  day  out,  and  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Robert  was  on  the  upper  deck,  comfortably 
established  in  his  steamer  chair,  and  literally  basking 
in  the  sun.  It  was  his  first  appearance  on  deck.  He 
had  been  in  his  bunk  all  the  day  before ;  not  seasick, 
as  he  assured  the  lawyer  and  the  poet  whenever  they 
looked  in  upon  him,  but  only  lazy.  Curiously,  Robert 
spoke  the  truth ;  for  seasickness,  as  we  all  know,  belongs 
to  that  growing  list  of  matters  about  which  even  per 
sons  who  are  ordinarily  truthful  feel  at  perfect  liberty 
to  lie. 

Robert  had  not  been  seasick.  He  had  simply  felt  the 
reaction  of  all  the  excitement  of  getting  off,  and  had  been 
too  weak  and  ill  to  get  up.  He  had  slept  practically  all 
day,  and  to  his  own  great  surprise,  practically  all  night. 
He  had  not  known  such  splendid  sleep  for  many  months. 
The  sea  had  been  smooth  enough  to  allow  the  port-hole  to 
be  open.  The  salt  air  and  the  gentle  rocking  motion  of 
the  big  ship  had  soothed  Robert  inexpressibly,  and  had 
already  done  more  to  cure  him  than  could  a  whole  month 
of  dismal  little  walks  in  the  Public  Garden.  His  eyes 
were  bright,  and  his  cheeks  were  tinged  with  faint  color. 
As  he  sat  there  in  his  steamer  chair  drinking  in  the  good 
air  and  sunshine,  he  seemed  so  little  like  an  invalid  that 
several  of  the  deck-trotters  looked  him  over  a  second  time 
as  they  passed  recurrently  before  his  chair,  and  wondered 

16 


AT   SEA 


why  they  had  not  noticed  such  a  nice-looking  young  fel 
low  the  day  before. 

A  couple  of  young  girls  making  their  first  little  journey 
into  the  world,  and  unconsciously  bent  upon  finding  ro 
mance  in  everything,  voted  Robert  handsome,  and  from 
that  passed  on  to  finding  him  mysterious.  Before  the  day 
ended,  they  had  tried  to  seek  out  his  name  on  the  pas 
senger  list.  In  point  of  fact  they  hit  upon  the  wrong 
name,  that  of  a  portly,  middle-aged  stockbroker,  who  was 
neither  handsome  nor  mysterious,  but  as  the  young  girls 
never  found  out  the  difference,  it  mattered  nothing  and 
romance  suffered  no  jolt. 

Robert,  meanwhile,  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  attracting  even  the  least  little  bit  of  attention  in 
the  world,  was  aware  only  of  a  general  sense  of  well-being 
that  amounted  to  a  positive  pleasure.  He  did  not  take 
the  trouble  to  analyze  its  source.  Had  the  ghost  of  his 
Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  demanded  an  account,  he  could 
have  given  none.  Whether  the  fattening  of  his  hitherto 
attenuated  pocket-book,  or  the  gentle  flow  of  renewed 
vitality  in  his  veins,  or  the  pleasant  novelty  of  the  situa 
tion  was  responsible  for  his  contentment,  he  neither  knew 
nor  cared.  The  one  thing  that  really  mattered  was  that 
he  felt  life  to  be  good.  For  once,  the  inexorable  con 
science  of  the  Pendexters  was  taking  a  vacation. 

When  the  deck  steward  came  around  shortly  after 
eleven  with  his  tray  of  adamantine  china  cups  and  adaman 
tine  china  plates,  Robert  drank  his  bouillon  as  if  it  had 
been  nectar,  and  nibbled  at  the  hardtack  with  as  much 
satisfaction  as  the  gods  are  supposed  to  extract  from  the 
consumption  of  ambrosia. 

17 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


The  three  friends  were  sitting  in  a  row.  For  once  Ste 
phen  was  not  dominant.  By  some  subtle  change  either  in 
destiny  or  temperament  Robert  was  unconsciously  recog 
nized  as  the  centre  of  the  party.  Stephen  sat  on  one  side 
and  Donald  on  the  other.  There  was  something  undeni 
ably  comfortable  in  watching  the  world  when  one  had  a 
friend  on  each  side  to  act  as  a  buffer.  Robert  would  have 
been  somewhat  amused  had  you  put  it  to  him  in  just  that 
way,  but  in  reality  his  sense  of  well-being  was  considerably 
heightened  by  this  enveloping  sense  of  friendliness.  It 
was  such  a  welcome  contrast  to  his  old  feeling  of  being 
quite  alone  in  the  world. 

Beyond  Stephen  stretched  a  long  line  of  steamer  chairs 
filled  with  men,  women,  and  children,  —  mostly  women. 
Beyond  Donald  stretched  another  long  line  of  steamer 
chairs  filled  with  other  men,  women,  and  children, — 
mostly  women.  Whatever  activities  they  had  been  up  to 
before  coming  on  board,  or  whatever  they  planned  to  be 
doing  as  soon  as  they  should  land,  now  made  scant  differ 
ence.  A  mantle  of  momentary  similarity  had  settled  over 
the  entire  line.  It  was  too  contented  to  be  called  ennui. 
It  was  rather  that  sense  of  suspended  occupation  which 
makes  of  an  ocean  voyage  a  veritable  parenthesis  of  simi 
larity  between  very  dissimilar  activities.  It  is  true  that 
one  gentleman  was  known  to  be  in  the  writing-room  pro 
ducing  reams  of  scrawling  manuscript,  but  it  was  spoken 
of  as  something  quite  abnormal,  and  by  the  more  experi 
enced  travelers  was  even  regarded  as  reprehensible,  for  it 
seemed  to  cast  some  slight  reflection  upon  the  prevailing 
idleness. 

It  could  hardly  be  said  that  any  of  the  passengers  were 

18 


AT   SEA 


thinking.  Robert's  thoughts,  at  any  rate,  were  far  from 
profound.  They  dwelt  for  the  moment  upon  the  bouillon 
he  was  drinking.  It  struck  him  as  odd  that  he  should  be 
eating  again  at  eleven  when  he  had  only  breakfasted  at 
nine.  "What  do  they  call  it?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Ste 
phen,  "  lunch  or  luncheon  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Stephen,  with  the  air  of  delivering  a 
final  judgment,  "  as  a  lawyer,  I  should  say  that,  the  meal 
being  now  in  progress,  it  ought  to  be  called  '  lunch-on.' " 

"Hang  such  puns,"  cried  Donald.  "And  I'll  bet  you 
cribbed  it  anyhow." 

"  No,  I  did  n't,"  retorted  Stephen.  "  It  just  came  to  me, 
as  you  poets  would  say,  like  a  shaft  of  light,  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment !  " 

"  We  should  say  nothing  of  the  sort,"  objected  Donald. 
"  Not,  at  any  rate,  in  describing  such  an  effort." 

But  Robert  was  in  the  grip  of  what  Donald  afterwards 
came  to  recognize  and  to  name  as  the  demon  of  literalness, 
and  was  bent  on  pursuing  the  subject  to  the  bitter  end. 
"  What  is  the  difference,  anyway,  between  lunch  and 
luncheon  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,"  murmured  Stephen,  with 
the  air  of  imparting  a  confidence,  "  on  land,  the  difference 
is  about  one  dollar  and  a  quarter ;  at  sea,  it  is  precisely 
two  hours ! " 

"  Well,  that 's  a  clean  steal,  out  and  out,"  said  Donald. 
"  I  '11  wager  you  got  that  out  of  the  '  Transcript,'  and  at 
least  four  years  ago !  " 

"  Only  half  of  it,"  replied  Stephen,  imperturbably, 
"and  last  week.  The  other  half  was  another  shaft,  and 
also  immediate." 

19 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


Robert  was  still  naive  enough  to  find  some  amusement 
in  this  rather  obvious  play  of  words.  It  all  came  so  quickly 
and  so  easily  that  he  felt  somehow  that  his  two  friends 
must  be  cleverer  than  he.  He  wondered  momentarily 
whether  they  could  have  made  good  against  Mr.  Watson, 
or  even  against  Mr.  Reed,  two  heavy  wits,  who  commonly 
triumphed  over  their  junior  clerks  by  a  process  which 
any  one  less  good-natured  than  Robert  would  have  called 
bullying. 

Robert  glanced  down  the  long  line  of  steamer-chairs 
beyond  Donald,  idly  wondering  whether  all  the  others 
were  as  comfortable  and  happy  as  he.  He  had  had  little 
opportunity  for  studying  his  fellow  passengers,  and  even 
now  the  opportunity  was  very  slight,  for  most  of  them 
were  lost  in  books,  or  hidden  in  veils,  or  wrapped  in  slum 
ber.  One  young  girl,  like  himself,  had  leaned  forward  to 
study  this  linear  display  of  humanity,  and  caught  Robert's 
eye.  There  was  something  funny  in  the  spectacle,  and, 
almost  without  meaning  to  do  it,  she  sent  Robert  a  quick 
little  smile  of  amused  appreciation.  It  was  such  a  frank 
and  pleasant  smile  that  Robert  naturally  smiled  back.  The 
girl  quickly  looked  away,  and  evidently  thought  no  more 
about  it.  But  to  Robert  it  was  something  of  an  adventure, 
and  he  found  it  difficult  to  keep  his  eyes  from  that  part 
of  the  line. 

Donald  had  been  quick  to  see  the  whole  affair,  and  was 
bent  upon  getting  some  fun  out  of  it.  "  An  eye  for  pretty 
girls,  I  see,"  he  chuckled,  "and  most  excellent  taste.  But 
I  should  n't  have  suspected  it  of  our  demure  little  Pen !  " 

"Girl!"  snorted  Stephen;  "she's  thirty,  if  she's  a 
day." 

20 


AT   SEA 


"Wrong  again,"  said  Donald,  confidently.  "I'll  allow 
twenty-five,  but  not  another  year.  And  all  women  are  girls 
until  they  're  married  or  get  to  be  old  maids." 

"  Do  you  know  who  she  is?  "  asked  Eobert. 

"  I  know  perfectly,"  answered  Donald,  in  the  same  low 
voice.  "  She  is  a  Boston  school-teacher." 

"How  do  you  know  that?  "  said  Robert,  incredulously. 

"  Anybody  with  two  eyes  in  his  head  could  see  that," 
retorted  Donald,  lightly.  "  She  carries  a  bag ;  she  wears 
spectacles ;  and  she  does  not  believe  half  she 's  told !  " 

"  You  see  more  than  I  do." 

"  Naturally !  You  have  no  imagination,  poor  man,"  said 
the  poet,  compassionately.  "  The  bag  is  downstairs  in  her 
state-room.  The  spectacles  are  in  her  pocket.  Her  disbe 
lief  shows  itself  in  the  beautiful  curve  of  her  eyebrows." 

"  What  a  dreadful  person  you  are !  "  laughed  Robert. 
"  I  suppose  you  even  know  the  lady's  name." 

"  Certainly.  It  is  Miss  Smith." 

Robert  was  rapidly  falling  in  with  the  spirit  of  banter, 
and  added  quickly,  "  Which  means  that  you  don't  know 
anything  about  it." 

"  Which  means  that  I  don't  know  anything  about  it," 
repeated  Donald,  in  his  lazy  fashion.  "  But  why  not  take 
an  occasional  excursion  into  the  unknown?  Why  stay 
always  anchored  in  the  Bay  of  Facts  ?  " 

Robert  was  quite  willing  to  essay  such  excursions,  but 
as  yet  he  did  it  clumsily.  He  would  keep  on  the  same 
tack  too  long,  and  never  seemed  to  know  when  to  port 
the  helm.  This  was  maddening  to  Donald.  He  himself 
touched  lightly  upon  all  subjects,  and  let  them  go  with  the 
same  ease  before  any  one  could  possibly  tire  of  them.  But 

21 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


he  resolved  to  keep  good-natured,  for,  in  spite  of  Robert's 
limitations,  Donald  had  taken  rather  a  fancy  to  him.  More 
over,  Robert's  awkwardness  was  forgivable,  for  it  was  the 
frank  awkwardness  of  a  boy.  When  he  was  tickled  intel 
lectually,  he  believed,  like  a  boy,  that  he  could  go  on  being 
tickled  somewhat  indefinitely  by  the  same  stimulus.  His 
next  remark  was  quite  in  line :  "  I  suppose  that  mau  over 
there  in  the  atrocious  ulster  is  Mr.  Smith." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Donald,  amused  at  Robert's  tire 
some  persistence.  "And  the  small  boy  howling  because 
he  is  not  allowed  to  have  another  biscuit  is  Master  Smith. 
We  shall  be  meeting  the  Smith  family  all  over  Europe." 

Stephen  apparently  had  not  been  listening,  but  he 
leaned  over  as  soon  as  Donald  stopped  speaking,  and  said 
with  the  air  of  finality  that  made  his  friends  so  sure  of 
the  judgeship,  "  And  sometimes,  my  hearties,  we  shall  be 
of  the  same  family,  even  we,  and  to  more  discerning  per 
sons  we  '11  be  the  Messrs.  Smith.  But  you  are  wrong  about 
the  lady.  She  is  not  from  Boston,  and  she  is  not  a  school 
teacher.  She  is  a  girl  from  the  golden  West,  an  heiress 
from  Saskatchewan,  for  why  otherwise  that  hair  like 
ripened  wheat  and  the  eyes  like  prairie  skies !  " 

"  Hear,  hear! "  cried  Donald,  mockingly.  "  The  judge  is 
falling  into  poesy !  " 

Just  then  the  rumor  got  abroad  that  a  ship  could  be  seen 
on  the  port  side.  The  greater  number  of  passengers  rushed 
over  to  the  deserted  deck  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her,  our 
three  young  friends  among  the  number.  But  it  proved  a 
false  alarm.  All  that  could  be  seen  was  the  shimmering 
gray  of  the  sea  against  the  darker  gray  of  the  sky.  No 
white  sail  or  dark  smoke-stack  disturbed  the  unbroken 

22 


AT   SEA 


horizon.  To  Robert  and  Stephen  it  seemed  a  sharply  pen 
ciled  straight  line  against  the  deeper  ocean  of  air.  To  the 
more  imaginative  Donald,  and  perhaps  also  to  "  Miss 
Smith,"  since  she  remained  after  the  others  had  gone,  it 
appeared  not  as  a  prosaic  straight  line,  but  as  a  magnifi 
cent  earth  curve  separating  the  partly  known  from  the 
wholly  unknown. 

Robert  did  not  return  to  his  chair.  Yielding  to  Stephen's 
brotherly  advice,  he  went  down  to  his  state-room,  and  took 
another  nap  to  such  good  purpose  that,  when  he  reappeared 
at  luncheon,  two  hours  later,  he  had  apparently  pulled 
himself  up  one  more  rung  on  the  ladder  of  health.  Donald 
found  himself  watching  Robert.  It  was  as  if  new  life  were 
stirring  in  what  Donald  had  taken  at  first  to  be  rather 
dull  clay.  Robert  grasped  so  eagerly  at  the  simplest 
pleasures  that  Donald,  a  born  lotos-eater,  found  himself 
exclaiming  softly,  "  It 's  pathetic.  The  poor  fellow  must 
have  been  half  starved !  " 

By  some  common  impulse,  all  the  passengers  took  an 
after-luncheon  constitutional  on  the  upper  deck.  The  decks 
were  so  unusually  wide  that  the  three  friends  could  easily 
walk  abreast,  even  though  the  current  of  promenaders 
surged  in  both  directions.  By  an  equally  common  im 
pulse,  the  constitutional  died  away,  and  our  young  friends 
found  themselves  with  an  afternoon  on  their  hands.  With 
the  experience  of  an  old  voyager,  Stephen  proposed  shuffle- 
board,  and  immediately  went  in  search  of  the  necessary 
apparatus.  It  was  in  charge  of  a  veteran  tar,  who  had 
long  since  withdrawn  his  eye  from  nautical  matters  to 
bestow  it  upon  human  concerns,  and  notably,  at  the  end 
of  the  voyage,  upon  that  midway  plaisance  in  the  garb  of 

23 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


the  traveling  public  which  is  the  recognized  home  of  the 
coin  of  the  realm.  Future  prospects  seeming  good,  the 
Veteran  Tar  bravely  bestirred  himself,  and  soon  had 
the  needed  cage  chalked  out  on  the  deck.  The  eight  cir 
cular  pieces  of  wood  marked  plus  were  neatly  ranged  on 
one  side  of  the  field,  while  the  eight  marked  zero  ranged 
up  on  the  other.  The  young  men  were  each  armed  with 
the  necessary  shuffle-push,  and  apparently  all  was  ready. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  Stephen  that  they  needed  an 
other  player.  "  Oh,  bother,"  he  exclaimed,  "  we  ought  to 
have  a  fourth,  so  we  could  play  sides.  It 's  a  lot  more 
fun." 

The  Veteran  Tar  was  much  too  discreet  to  offer.  There 
was  no  other  possible  fourth  to  overhear  the  remark  except 
Miss  Smith.  She  was  just  then  doing  what  she  promised 
herself  should  be  the  last  round  in  her  post-luncheon  con 
stitutional,  and  had  turned  a  corner  around  one  of  the 
deck-houses  just  in  time  to  hear  Stephen's  remark.  Alicia 
dearly  wanted  the  exercise,  so  she  stopped  and  said  in  her 
frank,  clear  voice,  "  I  should  be  glad  to  serve  as  fourth, 
if  I  may." 

The  young  men  had  not  seen  Alicia,  and  were  naturally 
taken  by  surprise  at  hearing  this  voice  out  of  the  empy 
rean.  They  quickly  recovered  themselves,  however,  and  as 
quickly  touched  their  caps.  Robert's  was  white,  and  very 
correct,  the  others  declared,  as  they  had  themselves  thought 
lessly  bought  prosaic  blue  caps.  The  three  exclaimed  in 
chorus : — 

"  That  would  be  very  nice." 

"  Sure,  we  would  like  it." 

"Oh,  please  do!" 

24 


AT   SEA 


How  much  Alicia  understood  of  this  mild  babel  it  would 
be  difficult  to  say,  but  she  easily  gathered  that  the  noise 
meant  assent,  and  was  looking  about  for  a  shuffle-push. 
Stephen  promptly  handed  her  his.  "  Please  take  this,"  he 
said,  and  then  disposed  of  the  question  of  sides  and  of 
introductions  by  adroitly  adding,  "  Perhaps  you  will  be 
kind  enough  to  play  with  Mr.  Pendexter.  Mr.  Fergusson 
and  I  will  put  up  our  prettiest  game  against  you." 

Kobert  rose  to  the  occasion  by  saying  quickly,  "  That 
would  be  very  nice."  Then,  remembering  that  Stephen's 
name  had  not  been  mentioned,  he  added,  "  Mr.  Morse  has 
played  before,  and  evidently  thinks  that  he  can  beat  us." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  any  one  to  ask  whether  Alicia 
had  ever  played  before.  She  quickly  assented  to  the  ar 
rangement,  expressing  herself,  however,  more  by  her  smile 
and  her  manner  than  by  any  specific  words.  She  rather 
appreciated  the  cleverness  with  which  the  men  had  intro 
duced  themselves  without  appearing  to  do  so,  and  she  was 
careful  to  connect  the  right  name  with  the  righ':  man. 
Either  unconsciously  or  from  intention,  Alicia  refrained 
from  mentioning  her  own  name.  Stephen  was  not  satisfied 
with  the  omission,  and  after  they  had  placed  themselves  to 
begin  the  game,  asked  with  the  persuasive  courtesy  of  a 
lawyer,  "  And  may  we  ask,  Madam,  what  might  be  your 
own  name?" 

Alicia  was  stooping  over  to  put  her  first  shot,  and  so  no 
one  could  see  her  eyes  and  know  whether  they  twinkled  or 
not.  She  answered  in  the  same  clear,  frank  voice,  "  Shall 
I  say  as  the  Quaker  did  ?  It  might  be  Smith,  but  happily 
it  is  n't!" 

Robert  colored  and  laughed  awkwardly.  Donald  tried 

25 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


to  look  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  remark.  But  Stephen 
answered  with  a  blandness  just  a  trifle  overdone,  "  I  'm 
glad  that  it  is  n't  Smith.  That  is  rather  a  commonplace 
name,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

In  spite  of  this  small  passage  at  arms,  Alicia  still 
omitted  to  mention  her  name,  and  our  young  friends  had  to 
content  themselves  during  the  rest  of  the  voyage  by  refer 
ring  to  her  in  thought  and  speech  as  "  Miss  Smith."  The 
omission  was  not  caused  this  second  time  by  intention, 
but  merely  by  the  fact  that  just  then  Alicia  put  her  first 
shot,  and  as  she  succeeded  in  landing  a  counter  very  neatly 
in  the  ten-place,  she  was  justified  in  regarding  her  achieve 
ment  as  for  the  moment  more  important  than  her  name. 
She  turned  to  Robert  and  said  in  her  bright  way,  "  Do 
you  see,  Mr.  Pendexter,  how  well  I  've  started  off  ?  " 

The  suspicion  floated  simultaneously  through  the  minds 
of  the  three  friends  that  very  probably  Alicia  had  played 
shuffle-board  before.  Thus  challenged,  both  Stephen  and 
Donald  played  their  very  best.  But  Alicia  and  Robert  also 
played  their  best.  Which  was  the  better  playing,  one 
need  not  speculate  upon,  but  certainly  Alicia  and  Robert 
happened  to  make  their  plays  fall  in  with  the  motion 
of  the  ship,  and  so  gain  the  greater  count.  When  they 
finally  stopped  playing,  the  games  stood  two  to  one  in  their 
favor. 

While  Stephen  and  Donald  were  helping  the  Veteran 
Tar  put  away  the  things,  Alicia  and  Robert  drew  over  to 
the  railing  and  stood  talking  about  the  game.  "  It 's  good 
exercise.  We  must  play  again,"  Alicia  was  saying.  Then 
she  turned  impulsively  towards  the  sky  and  sea,  and  added 
with  an  intensity  that  fairly  startled  Robert,  "  And  yet, 

26 


AT  SEA 


in  the  presence  of  two  such  immensities,  it  is  odd  that  one 
should  be  in  the  mood  for  any  game !  " 

Robert  followed  her  gaze  towards  the  impenetrable  gray 
wall  of  the  northern  sky,  and  when  he  looked  around 
again,  Alicia  had  gone. 

"  She  's  good  fun,  all  right,"  said  Stephen,  "  whatever 
her  name  may  be." 

"  But  how  awkward  about  the  name! "  lamented  Robert. 
"  How  could  she  have  heard  our  talk  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  she  did  hear  it,"  was  Donald's 
comfortable  suggestion.  "  It  may  have  been  a  mere  coinci 
dence.  But  of  course  it  may  be  that  she  has  awfully  sharp 
ears." 

Stephen  ignored  their  conjectures,  and  gave  the  judicial 
opinion  that  it  was  a  mere  coincidence. 

"  Well,"  said  Donald,  "  I  'd  give  a  new  penny  to  know ! " 

"But  I've  just  told  you!"  Stephen's  tone  assumed 
severity. 

"  All  the  same,"  protested  Donald,  "  I  'd  give  a  new 
penny  to  know." 

"  Well,  whether  she  heard  or  not,"  continued  Stephen, 
"  she  played  like  a  Scandinavian  goddess.  But  I  '11  give 
up  about  her  age.  Donald  may  have  put  it  too  high,  or  I 
may  have  put  it  too  low.  You  never  can  tell  about  these 
very  blonde  people.  They  may  be  twenty  or  they  may  be 
forty  !  But  there 's  one  thing  sure,  my  hearties.  In  point 
of  experience,  she  's  grandmother  to  all  of  us." 

"  As  we  don't  know  a  blessed  thing  about  her,"  said  Don 
ald,  "  we  're  free  to  make  up  any  tale  we  please.  To  little 
Pen  she  shall  be  the  Princess  Beautiful;  to  Stephen  she 
shall  be  the  wife  of  Thor  ;  to  me  she  shall  be  an  enigma. 

27 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


And  each  man's  tale  is  as  good  as  any  other  man's,  for 
we  're  equally  ignorant.  We  're  all  in  the  same  boat." 

"  Do  you  still  think  she  's  from  Saskatchewan  ?  "  asked 
Robert. 

"  With  such  manners,  —  and  so  sure  of  herself  !  "  ex 
claimed  Stephen.  "  Not  on  your  life,  little  Pen.  She  's 
from  Boston,  or  Philadelphia,  or  some  other  very  respect 
able  place.  And  it 's  not  her  first  crossing,  either  !  A  girl 
from  the  wheat-fields  could  n't  have  butted  into  the  game 
that  way  and  not  made  it  seem  a  little  bit  flirtatious. 
Miss  Smith  gave  me  the  impression  that  the  game  was 
hers,  and  that  she  had  graciously  allowed  us  to  join  in. 
Did  you  observe  the  way  she  led  off  without  being  urged, 
—  or  even  asked  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  woman's  right  to  do  that,"  suggested  Donald. 

"  Precisely,"  cried  Stephen,  in  triumph.  "  But  only  a 
very  well-bred  woman  is  so  sure  of  her  rights  that  she  just 
claims  them  without  making  any  fuss.  And  for  my  part, 
I  don't  believe  that  Miss  Smith  will  know  any  of  us,  not 
even  little  Pen,  except  on  the  top  deck  and  within  hailing 
distance  of  the  Veteran  Tar." 

The  three  friends  took  a  little  stroll  on  the  deck,  and 
then  Stephen,  the  kind  tyrant,  marched  Robert  off  to  his 
bunk  for  another  rest.  Again  Robert  tasted  of  that  won 
derfully  restoring  sea-sleep.  At  six,  the  room  steward 
brought  hot  water  and  suggested  that  it  was  time  to  dress 
for  dinner.  His  manner  was  too  mild,  however,  to  make 
any  impression  upon  a  man  so  steeped  in  sleep.  The  final 
bugle  found  Robert  still  in  his  bunk.  Stephen  stuck  his 
head  in  the  door  to  say  that  he  and  Donald  were  ready 
for  dinner,  but  would  willingly  wait  until  Robert  dressed. 

28 


AT   SEA 


Robert  would  hear  of  nothing  of  the  sort,  so  Stephen  took 
himself  off,  casually  bidding  Robert  to  put  on  his  best  bib 
and  tucker. 

Robert  jumped  up  and  dressed  hurriedly.  It  was  to  be 
his  first  appearance  at  dinner.  He  got  into  his  best  suit, 
a  black  cutaway  coat  with  waistcoat  to  match  and  gray 
trousers  bordering  on  lavender.  He  had  chosen  a  bright 
red  tie,  and  so  attired  of  a  week-day,  felt  very  much  dressed 
up.  It  was  the  suit  he  wore  to  church,  and  was  indeed  the 
only  one  he  owned  in  addition  to  the  sack  suit  in  gray 
that  he  wore  at  all  other  times.  Robert  started  for  the 
dining-saloon  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  that  he  was 
well  dressed.  He  noticed  that  several  of  the  stewards  looked 
at  him  rather  curiously  as  they  passed  him  in  the  corridors, 
but  he  took  this  as  a  silent  tribute  to  his  elegant  appear 
ance.  Once  inside  the  saloon,  Robert's  complaisance  gave 
way  to  consternation.  Nearly  all  the  other  men  had  on 
evening  clothes,  and  showed  an  expanse  of  white  linen  that 
seemed  to  make  light  of  the  more  sombre  part  of  their 
attire.  Most  of  them  had  white  ties.  The  women  were  still 
more  gorgeous.  Many  of  them  wore  low-necked  gowns  and 
some  had  short  sleeves.  The  display  of  jewels  was  almost 
dazzling.  To  Robert's  unsophisticated  eye,  it  seemed  as  if 
they  must  be  going  to  a  party,  and  a  very  grand  one,  at 
that.  When  he  reached  his  own  table,  he  found  that 
Stephen  and  Donald  were  attired  like  the  rest.  It  flashed 
over  Robert  that  this  was  what  was  meant  by  dressing  for 
dinner.  He  had  not  been  given  to  dining  out,  and  in  his 
simple  boarding-house  world,  it  was  not  the  custom  for 
junior  clerks  to  own  evening  clothes.  The  Sunday  cutaway 
served  for  all  festive  occasions  as  well.  Stephen  and  Don- 

29 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


aid  covered  his  embarrassment  as  best  they  could  by  allu 
sions  to  the  seven  sleepers  and  what  not.  But  their  efforts 
availed  little.  Poor  Robert  felt  upset  and  uncomfortable. 
And  when  he  reflected  that  he  had  not  only  made  a  mis 
take  to-night,  but  would  have  to  go  on  making  it  for  at 
least  five  nights  more,  wild  plans  began  to  form  themselves 
of  going  to  bed  hereafter  at  six  and  having  his  dinner 
served  in  his  state-room. 

It  seemed  to  Robert  that  everybody  looked  their  disap 
proval,  from  the  captain  and  ship's  officers  down  through 
the  long  line  of  passengers  to  the  very  stewards.  One 
Englishwoman  who  sat  at  the  captain's  table,  and  was  sup 
posed  to  own  a  title,  lifted  her  tortoise-shell  lorgnette  and 
regarded  Robert  quite  as  she  might  have  looked  at  a  new 
variety  of  animal.  Robert  caught  the  look.  Instead  of 
being  the  traditional  last  straw,  however,  it  proved  his 
salvation,  for  it  aroused  his  sense  of  humor.  "  I  may  look 
out  of  place,"  he  thought,  much  comforted,  "  but  at  any 
rate,  I  don't  look  as  ridiculous  as  you  do !  "  And  after  that, 
he  not  only  stood  the  ordeal  of  the  dinner,  but  even  enjoyed 
the  meal. 

In  reality,  if  poor  Robert  could  only  have  known  it,  his 
flaming  red  tie  brought  out  the  color  in  his  cheeks,  and 
made  him  look  singularly  wholesome  and  handsome.  People 
were  looking  at  him,  partly  in  surprise,  it  is  true,  but  also 
partly  in  admiration.  Donald  had  a  poet's  instinct  for 
beauty,  and  his  eyes  kept  wandering  towards  Robert,  while 
he  murmured  to  himself,  "  Give  him  time,  and  our  little 
spice  clerk  will  be  stunning,  fairly  stunning !  " 

The  dinner  finally  came  to  an  end.  Stephen  and  Donald 
went  up  to  the  smoking-room  for  their  cigars  and  coffee. 

30 


AT   SEA 


Robert  declined  their  cordial  invitation  to  be  of  the  party. 
He  decided  to  take  a  few  turns  on  deck,  and  get  back  to 
his  bunk  at  the  early  hour  prescribed  by  Dr.  Cheney.  In 
the  companionway  Robert  ran  across  Alicia.  He  would 
hardly  have  known  her,  however,  had  she  not  given  him  a 
friendly  nod,  for  she,  too,  had  emerged  from  the  chrysalis 
stage  and  put  on  the  butterfly.  She  wore  a  low-neck  black 
lace  gown,  which  would  have  been  rather  sombre  for  so 
young  a  woman  had  it  not  been  relieved  by  her  own  radi 
ant  person,  and  by  a  curiously  beautiful  jewel  which  hung 
suspended  by  a  slender  gold  chain  about  her  neck.  Robert 
nodded  and  went  on  to  his  state-room.  He  tried  to  conjure 
up  some  term  which  would  describe  Alicia.  When  he  com 
pared  her  to  such  beauties  as  had  from  time  to  time  wan 
dered  into  his  Pinckney  Street  world,  he  found  himself 
quite  at  a  loss.  He  did  not  know  Alicia's  type,  but  at  least 
he  knew  that  it  was  different  from  theirs.  Donald  could 
have  supplied  the  missing  term.  He,  too,  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Alicia  in  her  dinner-gown,  and  had  told  him 
self,  and  afterwards  Stephen,  that  she  possessed,  in  a  marked 
degree,  distinction ;  and  for  Donald  this  meant  that  he 
could  say  nothing  more  flattering. 

Robert  got  his  overcoat  and  cap,  and  walked  furiously 
around  the  upper  deck.  His  old  rebellious  mood  swept 
over  him.  It  made  him  hot  to  think  of  the  people  who  had 
probably  laughed  at  him  at  dinner.  It  seemed  to  him  a 
monstrous  thing  that  in  this  larger  world  in  which  he  so 
unexpectedly  found  himself,  the  social  prescriptions  should 
be  so  tyrannous.  He  was  not  thinking  very  coherently,  but 
he  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  should  not  like  to  dress  for 
dinner  every  night,  and  that  if  he  did  do  it,  he  should 

31 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


probably  not  do  it  right.  Then  there  came  the  still  more 
dispiriting  reflection  that  doubtless  there  were  other  social 
matters  which  were  just  as  tyrannous,  and  that  he  knew 
nothing  about,  in  fact  that  he  could  know  nothing  about 
until,  by  contravening  them,  he  would  learn  in  the  valley  of 
humiliation.  When  Robert  thought  of  his  immense  igno 
rance,  he  wondered  whether  it  would  not  have  been  better 
for  him  to  have  stopped  in  Doane  Street,  and  got  back  his 
health  by  the  liberal  use  of  cod-liver  oil  and  horseback 
exercise.  Dr.  Cheney  had  mentioned  neither  of  these 
sources  of  health,  but  Robert  had  once  known  a  man  for 
whom  they  had  been  prescribed,  and  as  they  were  both  ex 
pensive,  he  had  a  confused  notion  that  they  must  also  be 
effective. 

When  Robert  was  quite  at  his  lowest,  he  noticed  Alicia, 
wrapped  in  a  long  opera  cloak  and  leaning  against  the 
railing.  She  was  absorbed  in  her  two  immensities,  now 
merged  into  one,  the  black,  impenetrable  mystery  of  the 
night.  It  did  not  occur  to  Robert  that  Alicia  had  prob 
ably  chosen  to  be  alone,  nor  did  he  notice  that  her  lips 
were  moving  in  some  voiceless  meditation  or  prayer.  He 
rushed  up  to  her  and  said,  with  a  boyish  impulse  which 
amused  her  in  spite  of  its  quite  unwarranted  intrusion 
upon  a  vastly  different  mood,  "  Don't  you  think  it 's  a 
useless  bother  to  dress  for  dinner  every  night  ?  Don't  it 
bother  you,  now,  honest  ?  " 

Alicia  smiled.  "  You  know  that  women  are  supposed  to 
care  for  dress,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Robert,  impatiently.  "  But  if  you 
were  a  man.  How  would  you  dress,  if  you  were  a  man  ?  " 

Alicia  looked  at  Robert  and  hesitated  a  moment.  Then 

32 


AT   SEA 


she  answered  quite  simply :  "If  I  were  a  man,  I  think  I 
should  dress  in  any  way  that  made  me  least  conspicuous." 

Robert  did  not  entirely  understand  the  reply,  but  he 
had  a  quick  intuition  of  remoteness,  as  if  the  voice  had 
come  to  him  from  a  long  distance  out  in  space.  He  said 
"  Good-night "  abruptly,  and  hurried  down  to  his  state 
room. 

Alicia  frowned.  Then  she  dismissed  Robert  entirely 
from  her  thoughts  and  went  on  with  her  meditation.  Half 
an  hour  later,  when  she  joined  Mrs.  Costello,  she  had 
quite  forgotten  the  matter,  and  spoke  only  of  the  beauty 
and  mystery  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III 
UNDER  THE   STARS 

FOR  the  next  two  or  three  days  Robert  had  the  feeling 
that  somehow  life  was  very  full.  It  was  not  that  anything 
remarkable  happened.  Outwardly  it  was  rather  a  restricted 
life.  Although  the  Republic  was  such  a  large  boat,  the 
first-class  passengers  had  all  their  quarters  amidships, 
and  really  enjoyed  less  sweep  than  on  smaller  boats  of 
the  older  type.  It  was  the  price  they  had  to  pay  for  the 
lessened  motion. 

Robert  ate  and  slept  and  talked  and  walked,  and  all 
of  these,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  did  prodigiously,  and  on 
a  scale  which  only  a  week  before  would  have  appeared  to 
him  to  be  fairly  extravagant.  What  his  Aunt  Matilda 
Pendexter  would  have  thought  of  all  this  self-indulgence, 
Robert  did  not  allow  himself  to  ask.  Even  he  was  almost 
frightened  to  find  how  much  he  liked  the  idleness,  and 
what  an  undoubtedly  comfortable  feeling  the  unaccus 
tomed  luxuriousness  of  his  present  life  gave  him.  To  get 
up  when  he  pleased,  to  do  what  he  liked  all  day,  to  take 
a  whole  hour  for  luncheon  if  the  talk  made  it  seem  worth 
while,  to  sleep  whenever  he  felt  inclined,  to  read  books  in 
the  morning,  to  play  shuffle-board  of  an  afternoon,  even 
to  wear  the  despised  cutaway  coat  of  a  week-day,  were  all 
too  novel  and  too  much  of  a  contrast  to  the  alternating 
monotony  of  Doane  Street  and  Pinckney  Street,  not  to 
force  themselves  oddly  and  frequently  upon  his  attention. 
The  other  passengers  seemed  to  take  all  these  things  for 

34 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


granted,  and  to  be  for  the  most  part  unaware  that  there 
was  a  more  humdrum,  work-a-day  aspect  to  life.  They 
would  probably  have  failed  to  understand  the  source  of 
Robert's  buoyant  pleasure  quite  as  completely  as  Robert 
himself  failed  to  comprehend  their  own  daily  customs  and 
modes  of  thought.  We  must,  of  course,  except  the  ro 
mantic  school-girls.  As  we  have  seen,  they  had  already 
sensed  some  mystery  in  Robert  without  being  at  all  able 
to  define  or  name  it. 

It  was  this  violent  contrast  between  the  life  which  he 
had  just  thrown  over  and  the  larger  life  which  he  could 
not  yet  be  said  to  have  put  on,  that  really  constituted  the 
chief  element  in  Robert's  pleasure.  It  was  also  the  source 
of  considerable  pain,  for  at  any  moment,  quite  without 
warning,  some  small  circumstance  would  come  up,  trifling 
enough  in  itself,  but  still  sufficient  to  make  Robert  per 
ceive  that  the  others  were  to  the  manner  born,  while  he 
was  essentially  an  outsider.  At  times  he  rejoiced  that  he 
was,  for  he  felt  that,  after  all,  he  was  freer  than  they.  But 
it  was  still  a  world  of  very  mixed  values.  More  frequently 
Robert  regarded  himself  as  an  interloper,  without  any 
clear  right  to  move  among  them  on  equal  terms.  He  had  the 
disagreeable  feeling  that  he  was  sailing  under  false  colors. 

Stephen  found  Robert  increasingly  interesting,  and 
Donald  found  him  less  and  less  tiresome,  but  neither  of 
them  quite  divined  the  source  of  Robert's  heightened 
alertness.  Having  always  moved,  themselves,  in  this  larger 
world,  they  could  not  realize  the  effect  of  being  suddenly 
introduced  into  it  from  a  totally  different  world,  and  of 
being  introduced,  as  it  were,  without  any  preparatory  ves 
tibule.  Even  the  poet's  lively  imagination,  capable  as  it 

35 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


was  of  making  tremendous  excursions  into  the  unknown, 
could  not  quite  fathom  this  particular  depth  in  the  Bay 
of  Facts. 

But  real  as  these  minor  currents  in  Robert's  daily 
steamer  life  were,  they  quite  merged  themselves  and  got 
lost  in  the  mightier  physical  current  now  sweeping  over 
him,  the  current  of  awakened  life.  The  idleness,  the  long 
hours  of  sleep,  the  abundant  food,  the  wealth  of  sun  and 
air,  the  excellent  companionship,  were  just  what  Robert 
needed,  —  much  more  than  cod-liver  oil  and  lonely  horse 
back  exercise.  He  responded  in  a  way  that  would  have 
done  Dr.  Cheney's  heart  good.  Even  Stephen,  witnessing 
this  daily  miracle  of  renewed  life,  felt  constrained  formally 
and  judicially  to  withdraw  his  own  harsh  judgment  against 
the  doctor  for  packing  Robert  off  from  Boston  in  such 
apparently  casual  fashion. 

As  the  tide  of  life  rose  higher,  Robert  quickly  relin 
quished  his  semi-invalid  habits.  Instead  of  going  to  bed 
before  nine,  he  got  to  staying  up  until  ten,  and  finally 
even  until  eleven.  Fortunately  the  weather  was  warm, 
and  sea-life  at  its  best.  Robert  began  to  feel  the  enchant 
ment  of  the  sea,  and  gradually,  as  he  grew  accustomed  to 
it,  the  still  more  wonderful  enchantment  of  the  night.  He 
sat  out  on  deck,  exulting  in  the  sensation  of  rushing  through 
void  spaces  to  meet  unknown  worlds.  The  mystery  of 
the  night,  a  mystery  which  one  feels  most  keenly  at  sea, 
or  on  the  desert  or  the  mountain-top,  came  to  Robert  as 
a  novel  experience.  In  Pinckney  Street  he  had  never 
really  felt  the  night.  He  had  felt  the  darkness  and  the 
gloom,  had  been  blinded  by  the  sharp  points  of  the  elec 
tric  lights,  had  been  conscious  of  liking  the  twilight  hours 

36 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


because  they  meant  release  from  Doane  Street ;  but  of  the 
night  as  a  whole,  its  mystery,  its  enlightening  darkness 
when  the  soul  is  thrown  in  upon  itself  in  the  wonderful 
silence  of  a  sleeping  creation,  Robert  had  really  had  no 
taste.  It  became  for  him  a  time  of  physical  excitement. 
When  he  could,  he  escaped  from  the  others,  and  sought 
out  some  spot  farthest  removed  from  all  the  steamer's 
sounds  and  light.  It  was  the  easier  to  do  this,  because 
Stephen  and  Donald  always  went  for  a  smoke  directly 
after  dinner,  and  fell  into  the  way  of  supposing  that  Rob 
ert  was  already  in  his  bunk  when  at  last  they  sauntered 
out  for  a  final  promenade.  But  even  the  poet  never  took 
more  than  a  few  short  turns  on  deck,  for  both  he  and  Ste 
phen  felt,  without  ever  expressing  it,  that  dinner-clothes 
and  the  after-dinner  mood  went  better  with  sound  and 
light  and  jollity  than  with  deserted  decks  and  the  solemn 
stillness  of  the  night. 

One  evening,  however,  when  the  voyage  was  nearing  its 
end,  and  Robert's  invalidism  had  become  more  and  more 
of  a  fiction,  Stephen  insisted  that  Robert  should  join  them 
in  the  smoking-room.  Robert  tried  to  beg  off.  He  had 
almost  a  child's  dislike  of  tobacco-smoke,  and  a  strong  re 
pugnance,  which  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  would  have 
considered  most  proper,  for  all  bar-room  odors  and  scenes. 
Stephen  would  not  hear  of  it,  however,  for  it  had  got 
noised  abroad  that  a  particularly  good  story  was  to  be  told 
that  night,  and  he  urged,  with  some  show  of  logic,  that 
an  ocean  voyage  would  hardly  be  a  complete  experience 
without  at  least  one  evening  in  the  smoking-room. 

The  three  friends  went  up  directly  from  the  dinner- 
table,  and  established  themselves  in  a  cosy  corner  where 

37 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


they  could  see  and  hear  all  that  was  going  on.  The  room 
filled  up  earlier  than  usual.  There  were  comfortable,  well- 
fed,  worldly-looking  men,  in  glossy  dinner-coats  and  im 
maculate  linen.  There  were  keen,  experienced,  worldly 
women,  who  wore  their  beautiful  gowns  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course,  almost  contemptuously  indeed,  and  altogether 
without  that  conscious  air  of  being  in  holiday  attire  which 
among  the  women  of  Robert's  acquaintance  commonly 
spoiled  such  effect  as  they  might  otherwise  have  achieved. 
Robert  was  somewhat  dismayed  to  see  so  many  women  in 
what  was  manifestly  nothing  but  a  floating  bar-room,  but 
they  themselves  were  so  completely  unshocked  that  Robert 
felt  disposed  to  count  his  own  feeling  a  probable  prejudice. 
That  Alicia  was  there  made  it  at  least  respectable.  Aside 
from  the  odors  of  stale  beer  and  stale  tobacco  smoke,  it 
seemed  to  Robert  to  be  on  the  whole  a  comfortable,  pleas 
ant  world,  and  he  quite  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene. 
Everybody  seemed  talking  at  once,  and  Robert  found  him 
self  wondering  what  would  have  been  the  result  if  all  the 
lips  sealed  from  speech  by  cigar  or  cigarette  had  added 
their  share  to  the  existing  babel.  Presently,  however,  there 
was  a  partial  lull,  the  half  silence  of  expectation,  and  it 
was  evident  that  the  time  for  story-telling  had  arrived. 

By  a  common  impulse,  all  eyes  were  turned  towards 
one  corner,  to  an  old  sailor  sitting  nonchalantly  in  one  of 
the  big  armchairs.  He  was  puffing  away  at  an  old  pipe, 
his  legs  were  crossed,  and  though  he  occupied  the  centre 
of  the  stage,  so  to  speak,  he  appeared  wholly  unconcerned. 
Our  young  friends  were  surprised  to  recognize  in  him  the 
Veteran  Tar,  the  chalker  of  diagrams  and  keeper  of  scores 
on  the  upper  deck.  But  something  had  happened  to  the 

38 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


old  man.  Instead  of  being  the  subservient  mariner  of  their 
afternoon  games,  he  had  on  a  just  perceptible  swagger, 
and  the  unmistakable  air  of  being  quite  as  good  as  any 
body. 

"  They  've  filled  him  up  with  grog,  all  right,"  said  Ste 
phen,  "  or  he  'd  never  face  the  music  in  that  style.  It  '11 
be  more  fun  than  a  goat  to  hear  him  yarn." 

"Do  you  suppose  it  really  happened?"  asked  Robert, 
as  soon  as  the  tale  was  ended,  and  the  applause  had  some 
what  subsided. 

"  Lord,  no,"  answered  Stephen.  "  The  old  fool  made 
up  every  word  of  it." 

"  Hold  on,"  broke  in  Donald,  "  don't  let  the  Judge  per 
vert  your  literary  taste,  little  Pen.  The  Veteran  Tar  has 
a  fine  imagination,  —  which  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  you 
two.  He 's  an  artist,  a  poet,  a  creator,  almost  a  genius  !  " 

"  Oh,  tommy-rot !  "  exclaimed  Stephen.  "  Cut  out  your 
hot  air.  It 's  time  for  little  Pen  to  go  to  bed.  Let 's  have 
a  night-cap." 

As  Stephen  spoke,  he  beckoned  to  a  waiter,  and  both 
Stephen  and  Donald  gave  their  orders. 

The  waiter  vanished  before  Stephen  had  time  to  turn 
to  Robert.  "  What  will  you  have,  little  Pen  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Better  take  something  good  and  plain,  nothing  so  fancy 
as  the  poet  indulges  in." 

"I?"  answered  Robert.  "Nothing  at  all.  I  sleep  too 
much  as  it  is.  I  don't  need  a  night-cap." 

"Oh,  you'd  better,"  persisted  Stephen.  "Just  to  learn 
how  to  order  it  when  you  get  to  some  town  where  the 
water's  bad.  Better  try  a  plain  whiskey  and  soda." 

When  the  waiter  returned,  Robert  ordered  a  plain 

39 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


whiskey  and  soda.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever 
done  such  a  thing,  and  it  made  him  feel  exceedingly  worldly. 

It  was  now  the  last  night  out.  The  Republic  was  ex 
pected  to  make  Liverpool  some  time  the  following  morn 
ing.  The  ocean  had  become  less  lonely.  The  number  of 
vessels  had  greatly  increased,  and  made  the  waters  seem 
almost  populous.  There  were  little  coastwise  steamers 
puffing  about  at  all  angles,  and  with  the  air  of  the  highest 
importance;  ocean  tramps,  apathetic  and  ungainly,  bound 
for  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe ;  fishing  boats  and  sailing 
vessels  of  all  possible  sorts  and  conditions,  apparently 
headed  for  no  particular  haven,  but  bent  only  upon  getting 
in  the  way. 

On  board  the  Republic,  there  was  that  unmistakable 
feeling  of  approaching  port.  Stephen  sniffed  it  in  the 
air.  Even  Robert  and  Donald,  making  their  first  cross 
ing,  sensed  the  difference.  In  mid-ocean  there  had  been 
an  astonishing  amount  of  comradeship,  and  a  still  more 
astonishing  amount  of  self-revelations.  Confidences  that 
ordinarily  would  have  been  warranted  only  by  a  life 
long  friendship  were  offered  with  comparative  freedom 
to  almost  entire  strangers.  It  is  one  of  the  curious  pheno 
mena  of  the  sea. 

But  now  the  land  attitude  was  beginning  to  reassert 
itself.  The  old  prudential  reserve  was  coming  back  in  full 
force.  In  some  cases  the  pendulum  swung  absurdly  far 
the  other  way.  In  place  of  the  larger  and  more  gracious 
humanity  there  came  a  rigid  primness  that  chilled  the  air 
and  made  the  very  food  seem  cold.  The  last  dinner  had 
been  eaten.  It  is  always  a  less  successful  function  on 
English  than  on  Continental  steamers,  but  to-night  it  was 

40 


UNDER   THE   STARS 


less  successful  than  ever.  Each  Englishman,  conscious  of 
having  let  himself  go  just  a  little  bit  in  mid-ocean,  was 
now  making  conscientious  efforts  to  atone  for  his  friendli 
ness.  The  method  adopted  to  achieve  this  genial  end  was 
commonly  the  same.  It  consisted  in  looking  extremely  re 
mote  and  self-centred,  and  in  implying,  as  far  as  manner 
could  do  it,  that  any  advances  during  the  earlier  part  of 
the  voyage  had  been  a  regrettable  mistake,  and  wholly  the 
fault  of  the  other  man.  The  result  of  this  widespread 
effort  was  a  settled  gloom.  There  were,  of  course,  oases  in 
this  desert  of  respectability.  There  were  groups  of  Ameri 
cans  still  so  human  and  so  untouched  by  Anglican  man 
ners  that  they  were  not  abashed  at  being  cheerful.  There 
were  non-insular  Europeans  who  continued  to  be  commu 
nicative  and  well-bred.  At  the  table  of  our  three  young 
friends,  the  other  seven  passengers  were  either  English,  or 
else  Colonials  who  rapidly  recovered  their  dullness  the 
nearer  home  they  got.  The  odds  against  even  a  passable 
dinner  had  been  rather  heavy.  But  Stephen  had  declined 
to  be  depressed.  He  was  even  more  hilarious  than  usual. 
He  made  pun  after  pun,  and  some  of  them  not  so  bad, 
and  capped  one  good  story  with  another.  But  the  line 
had  been  drawn,  and  none  but  his  compatriots  allowed 
themselves  to  be  amused. 

The  effect  on  Donald  was  somewhat  different.  No  de 
tail  of  the  situation  escaped  him.  It  struck  him  as  so  deli 
cious,  the  obvious  effort  of  Stephen,  the  obvious  resistance 
of  the  islanders,  that  he  chuckled  audibly  from  the  soup 
through  to  the  dessert.  His  own  contributions  to  this  grim 
feast  had  been  only  occasional,  but  they  put  poor  Robert 
on  pins  and  needles,  for  only  their  subtlety  kept  them 

41 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


from  being  impossible.  Robert  could  not  help  enjoying 
these  thrusts.  He  liked  their  cleverness  and  their  auda 
city.  But  at  the  same  time  he  felt  highly  uncomfortable, 
and  sat  through  the  meal  in  awkward  silence.  He  was 
conscious  of  giggling  when  he  meant  only  to  smile.  At 
last  the  dinner  had  dragged  itself  to  an  end  and  the  dining- 
saloon  emptied  with  almost  an  audible  sigh  of  relief.  The 
stewards,  Robert  remembered,  had  looked  even  more 
bored  than  usual. 

The  three  friends  were  now  on  deck  again,  and  cosily 
established  in  their  steamer  chairs.  Stephen  and  Donald 
had  for  once  omitted  their  after-dinner  smoke.  The  fresh 
air,  the  renewed  presence  of  the  immensities,  the  un 
troubled  procession  of  the  stars,  seemed  to  restore  all  things 
to  their  accustomed  poise.  The  three  friends  had  placed 
their  chairs  well  forward,  where  the  lights,  in  deference 
to  the  lookout  on  the  bridge,  had  either  been  covered  up 
or  extinguished.  The  soft  swish  of  the  water  against  the 
vessel's  side  was  the  only  thing  that  was  heard.  The  air 
brushing  past  their  faces  with  its  pleasant  suggestion  of 
on-rush  was  the  only  thing  that  was  felt.  The  tranquillity 
of  the  stars  was  the  only  thing  that  was  seen.  Other  dark 
figures  sat  all  around  them,  silent  but  not  unfriendly.  The 
sea  and  the  night  held  them  all  under  their  joint  spell. 

Stephen  was  the  first  to  speak :  "  I  say,  Pen,  what 's  the 
use  of  having  a  poet  along  if  he  can't  speak  up  at  such  a 
moment  as  this  ?  Donald,  my  boy,  it 's  up  to  you.  Give 
us  a  bit  of  verse  about  the  sea,  or  the  night,  or  both,  or 
either,  or  neither.  Minstrel,  ahoy,  time  up !  " 

Without  any  hesitation,  and  in  a  richer  and  more 
vibrant  voice  than  Robert  had  ever  heard  him  use  before, 

42 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


Donald  repeated  some  lines  of  his  own,  "  An  Invocation 
to  the  Sea." 

When  Donald  ceased  speaking  there  was  a  silence  for 
some  moments.  Stephen  was  the  first  to  break  it :  "  A 
pretty  tune,  minstrel,  and  bravely  sung.  Good  Unitarian 
doctrine,  too.  But  the  rhyming  is  a  bit  obvious  for  me. 
Give  us  something  from  one  of  the  senior  poets." 

"  All  right,  old  man,"  said  Donald,  without  any  resent 
ment.  He  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  repeated  those 
beautiful  lines  of  Matthew  Arnold,  beginning :  — 

"  Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea." 

When  Donald  finished,  both  Stephen  and  Robert 
thanked  him  heartily,  and  Stephen,  who  seemed  to  know 
the  whole  poem  by  heart,  softly  repeated  the  final  lines, — 

"  '  Resolve  to  be  thyself ;  and  know  that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery  !  »  " 

"  Do  give  us  another,  Donald,"  said  Robert,  earnestly. 

"It's  the  Judge's  turn,"  answered  Donald,  lightly. 
"  Come,  Stephen,  something  good,  original  or  otherwise." 

Quite  simply,  and  with  a  depth  of  feeling  that  astonished 
Robert,  Stephen  gave  a  beautiful  sonnet  of  Shakespeare's 
that  touches  upon  the  sea. 

Donald  would  gladly  have  had  the  recital  stop  here,  for 
he  felt  that  they  had  touched  high- water  mark,  but  Rob 
ert,  whose  inability  to  let  go  of  things  at  the  flood  we  have 
already  remarked,  begged  Stephen  for  one  more  poem, 
urging  that  Donald  had  given  two. 

"  I  would  willingly,  little  Pen,"  said  Stephen,  with  the 

43 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


caressing  air  that  he  always  threw  into  the  "little  Pen," 
"  but  really  I  can't  think  of  any  that  would  be  appro 
priate." 

Robert's  persistence  was  more  fortunate  than  common, 
for  a  voice  from  one  of  the  neighboring  chairs  spoke  up 
quickly.  "  If  you  will  allow  me  to  act  as  substitute,  I  will 
try  to  recall  a  poem  that  perhaps  you  and  your  friends 
may  enjoy."  It  was  a  woman's  voice,  very  clear  and  curi 
ously  high-pitched.  It  seemed  to  come  not  from  any  part 
of  her  anatomy,  but  literally  from  some  region  quite  above 
her.  It  was  not  only  higher  than  the  tones  of  ordinary  con 
versation,  but  it  seemed  to  Robert  higher  than  the  tones 
of  any  conceivable  conversation.  And  yet  it  pleased.  In 
addition  to  its  musical  quality,  it  spoke  of  long  years  of 
cultivation.  It  was  distinctly  artificial,  but  as  distinctly 
justified  by  its  own  excellence.  Robert  had  never  heard 
such  a  voice,  and  for  the  moment  was  so  taken  up  with  its 
quality  that  he  forgot  to  make  any  reply.  Stephen  spoke 
for  them  all :  "  Thank  you  very  much.  We  should  be 
delighted  if  you  would." 

None  of  the  friends  knew  precisely  which  chair  had 
spoken,  nor  could  they  be  quite  sure  even  later,  for  the 
darkness  had  deepened  and  wrapped  them  all  in  its  friendly 
mantle.  Without  prelude  of  any  kind,  the  voice  repeated 
Emerson's  lines  on  the  sea-shore,  the  ones  beginning 

"  I  heard  or  seemed  to  hear  the  chiding  Sea 
Say,  Pilgrim,  why  so  late  and  slow  to  come  ?  " 

The  effect  was  intangible,  remote,  impersonal,  for  the 
voice  never  dropped  its  pitch,  never  lost  its  air  of  coming 
down  to  them  from  above. 

Robert  was  not  given  to  reading  poetry,  and  this  was 

44 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


a  new  experience  for  him.  He  thanked  the  voice  very 
genuinely,  and  begged  for  still  one  more  selection.  The 
lady  said  pleasantly,  "  Yes,  if  you  wish";  and  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause  she  added,  "Let  us  take  something  from 
Mrs.  Browning."  She  chose  "  Mother  and  Poet,"  the  poem 
ending  with  the  lines : 

"  Dead !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Both  !  both  my  boys !  If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  !  " 

The  effect  was  even  more  striking  than  in  the  case  of 
Emerson's  lines,  for  now  it  was  a  woman  who  was  speak 
ing.  The  artificial,  high-pitched  voice  easily  simulated  a 
mother's  grief,  and  lost  itself  in  a  lament  that  was  half 
sob,  half  wail.  When  the  recital  ended,  not  only  the  three 
friends,  but  also  a  chorus  of  muffled  figures  expressed 
their  thanks.  One  woman  got  up  hastily  and  went  inside. 
When  she  opened  the  door  of  the  companionway,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  blinding  light,  both  Stephen 
and  Robert  noticed  that  she  was  dressed  in  black. 

By  common  consent  a  long  silence  fell  upon  the  com 
pany.  Only  the  swish  of  the  water  at  the  steamer's  side 
and  the  tramp  of  the  officer  on  the  bridge  interrupted 
the  quiet.  One  by  one  the  company  melted  away.  The 
Veteran  Tar  noiselessly  folded  up  the  steamer  chairs  and 
put  the  forgotten  rugs  in  neat  piles  on  the  long  sofa  in 
the  companionway.  Still  the  three  friends  sat  on.  Robert 
had  got  slept  up,  and  remained  on  deck  partly  out  of 
pure  pleasure  in  the  night,  and  partly  because  he  wanted 
to  hold  back  the  ending  of  the  voyage  just  as  long  as  pos- 

45 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


sible.  Stephen  and  Donald  were  busy  with  their  own 
thoughts.  Presently  Robert  sighed. 

"What's  up,  Pen?"  asked  Stephen.  "Did  Sappho 
make  you  sniffle  over  your  dead  sons,  too?" 

"  No,  I  was  not  thinking  about  Sappho,  —  if  you  mean 
the  lady  with  the  remarkable  voice.  I  was  thinking  how 
sorry  I  am  to  have  the  voyage  end.  Don't  you  wish  it 
could  go  on  forever?" 

"  Lord,  no,"  answered  Stephen,  briskly.  "  It 's  good 
enough  fun  while  it  lasts,  but  seven  days  are  enough  for 
me,  and  I  could  get  on  with  five.  I  shall  skip  down  the 
gang-plank  to-morrow  without  a  tear  in  my  throat  or  a 
sob  in  my  eye !  " 

Robert  was  already  feeling  homesick  for  the  steamer 
and  a  bit  afraid  of  the  big,  untried  world  of  Europe.  He 
only  smiled  at  Stephen's  way  of  putting  it,  and  went  on 
rather  gloomily :  "  Some  people  say  that  the  voyage  is  the 
best  part  of  a  European  trip  anyway." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,  little  one.  4  People '  say  a  lot  of 
things  that  are  n't  so  !  That 's  all  laziness.  It 's  all  right 
as  a  preface,  especially  when  there  are  three  of  you,  and 
Miss  Smith  and  Sappho  are  along,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Veteran  Tar.  But  it 's  only  a  preface,  a  foretaste,  a  vesti 
bule,  an  introduction,  a  preparation,  an  antechamber,  a 
prefix,  an  appetizer  —  " 

"  Hold  on  !  "  cried  Donald.  "  We  catch  your  meaning. 
Continue  with  the  thought." 

"  Well,"  said  Stephen,  somewhat  out  of  breath,  "  I  was 
merely  going  to  say  that  since  the  voyage  is  a  necessary 
part  of  the  business,  it  is  well  enough  to  make  the  best  of 
it ;  but  it 's  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting,  compared  to  Europe 

46 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


itself.   Europe  is  the  real  thing.  To-morrow  we  shall  begin 
to  live ! " 

Stephen's  enthusiasm  was  contagious,  but  in  spite  of  it 
Robert  continued  to  feel  skeptical,  and  especially  when  he 
thought  of  the  lonely  days  after  Stephen  had  gone  home, 
and  Donald  had  settled  down  to  his  studies  and  verse- 
making  in  Berlin.  It  seemed  wiser  to  change  the  subject, 
so  he  asked,  "  Did  you  find  out  which  one  was  Sappho  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  answered  Stephen.  "  The  voice  came  from 
such  a  bunch  of  womankind  that  for  the  life  of  me  I 
could  n't  tell  which  one  perpetrated  it.  I  meant  to  watch 
and  hear  them  say  good-night  to  one  another,  but  some 
how  I  did  n't.  They  got  off  before  I  knew  it." 

"And  for  a  very  good  reason,"  put  in  Donald:  "it's 
hard  to  watch  and  sleep  at  the  same  time." 

"Asleep  your  grandmother,"  retorted  Stephen.  "I 
did  n't  take  so  much  as  forty  winks." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  at  any  rate  you  snored ! " 

"Snored!"  cried  Stephen.  "How  horrible!  How  un 
mannerly  to  snore  in  the  presence  of  Sappho!  I  should 
rather  have  slept!" 

"  Don't  be  disturbed,"  continued  Donald.  "She  'd  prob 
ably  gone  before  you  got  really  tuned  up." 

44  For  this  bit  of  comfort,  I  thank  you ! "  replied 
Stephen,  with  mock  humility.  "  My  self-respect  is  saved." 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  voice,"  said  Robert. 

"  It  was  more  than  that,"  cried  Donald.  "  It  was  dis 
tinguished." 

"Don't  you  know  anything  about  her?"  persisted 
Robert,  turning  to  Stephen.  "  I  thought  you  lawyers 
knew  everything." 

47 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  We  do.  You  are  quite  right,  little  innocent.  We  do. 
We  know  everything  and  everybody  and  every  place.  If 
I  were  on  the  stand,  now,  I  should  say  as  a  pretty  sure 
guess  that  Sappho  is  from  Boston,  for  no  woman  from 
any  other  place  on  earth  could  have  such  a  voice.  In  the 
second  place,  that  she  is  cultivated  up  to  the  last  notch 
and  quite  regardless  of  expense.  In  the  third  place,  that 
in  point  of  age,  she  is  anywheres  between  twenty  and 
eighty.  But  that  don't  signify,  for  Boston  women  never 
grow  old.  And  in  the  fourth  place,  that  to  know  her 
would  be,  as  Somebody-or-Other  said  about  Somebody-or- 
Other,  a  liberal  education." 

"  Doubtless  Pen  will  recognize  her,"  suggested  Donald. 

"Doubtless,"  repeated  Stephen,  dryly  —  "  by  her  voice." 

"  I  shall  certainly  try,"  declared  Robert ;  and  after  a 
little  he  added,  "  I  must  go  downstairs  now  and  pack  up. 
Have  you  two  packed  yet  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Stephen,  promptly. 

"  Are  n't  you  going  to  to-night  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Stephen,  in  the  same  voice. 
"  I  never  pack  until  the  very  last  moment." 

"  What  a  miserable  way  of  doing,"  was  Robert's  com 
ment,  as  it  would  have  been  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pen- 
dexter's  ;  "  you  might  get  left." 

"  Perfectly  true,"  assented  Stephen,  solemnly.  "  I 
might  get  left.  But  then  you  people  who  pack  up  so  far 
ahead  of  time  always  do  get  left.  You  're  mortally  sure  to 
want  something  at  the  very  bottom  of  your  trunk  as  soon 
as  you  get  locked  and  strapped.  And  aside  from  this  de 
plorable  certainty,  you  're  all  unsettled  and  adrift  several 
hours  before  you  need  to  be !  Take  the  advice  of  an  old 

48 


UNDER  THE   STARS 


traveler,  and  don't  touch  a  thing  until  you  feel  our  goodly 
ship  tugging  at  her  anchor  alongside  of  Victoria  Pier, 
Liverpool." 

"What  it  is  to  travel  with  a  philosopher!"  cried 
Donald. 

"  And  with  a  poet !  "  put  in  Robert. 

"  And  with  little  Pen !  "  added  Stephen,  rising  and 
pulling  both  men  out  of  their  chairs,  and  marching  them 
off  to  bed. 

Whereupon  the  Veteran  Tar  performed  his  final  func 
tions  in  disposing  of  chairs  and  rugs,  and  went  off  to  the 
fo'castle,  chuckling,  but  whether  with  his  passengers,  or 
at  them,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  PASS  OF  LLANBERIS 

IT  may  have  been  the  dull  day,  or  his  regret  at  leaving 
the  steamer,  or  it  may  have  been  that  Liverpool  is  really 
not  a  beautiful  place,  but  for  some  reason  Robert's  first 
impressions  of  Europe  were  distinctly,  even  sadly,  disap 
pointing.  In  spite  of  Stephen's  radical  theories  about  pack 
ing,  Robert  had  all  his  things  in  trunk  and  suit-case  very 
early  the  next  morning,  and  was  up  on  deck  long  before 
the  others  appeared.  He  was  uncomfortably  anxious  not 
to  lose  anything.  With  returning  health,  the  active  con 
science  of  the  Pendexters  was  beginning  to  resume  its 
normal  functions.  It  had  entire  possession  of  Robert  as  he 
paced  the  upper  deck  alone  in  the  moist  grayness  of  early 
morning.  Whatever  may  have  been  their  sins  of  omission 
and  commission,  there  was  probably  not  a  more  conscience- 
smitten  voyager  than  he  among  all  the  hundreds  who  made 
up  the  passengers  and  crew  of  the  Republic.  Had  his  Aunt 
Matilda  Pendexter  been  there  in  the  flesh,  she  could  hardly 
have  lashed  him  more  successfully,  or  more  unmercifully. 
Robert's  main  charge  against  himself  was  that  he  had 
been  idle  and  frivolous ;  that  he  had  quite  let  himself  go, 
in  fact,  and  had  been  altogether  unworthy  of  his  oppor 
tunities.  He  could  not  honestly  accuse  himself  of  any  active 
wrong-doing,  but  it  was  the  sins  of  omission  that  stared 
him  in  the  face.  Robert  quite  ignored  the  fact,  now  that  he 
felt  so  much  stronger,  that  he  was  really  berating  an  in 
valid  for  not  doing  the  things  that  a  well  man  might  per- 

50 


THE   PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


haps  have  done  to  advantage.  He  thought  with  genuine 
self-reproach  of  all  the  instructive  facts  he  had  meant  to 
gather  when  he  first  came  on  board.  He  had  gathered  none 
of  them.  He  had  not  been  down  to  see  the  machinery,  or 
learned  how  many  tons  of  coal  per  day  the  boilers  con 
sumed.  He  had  not  visited  the  steerage  and  talked  with 
the  returning  emigrants  about  their  experiences  in  Amer 
ica.  He  had  not  been  up  in  the  chart-room  and  learned 
the  details  of  their  particular  route.  Having  originally  mis 
taken  the  chief  steward  for  the  captain,  he  had  never  since 
got  straightened  out  about  the  ship's  officers.  He  had  failed 
to  learn  the  signal-code,  or  even  the  funnels  and  flags  of 
the  different  trans- Atlantic  lines.  He  had  seen  one  of  the 
officers  fumbling  with  an  instrument  that  somebody  said 
was  a  sextant,  but  he  hadn't  troubled  himself  to  learn 
how  it  worked.  He  could  n't  have  told  his  Aunt  Matilda 
how  many  eggs  they  consumed  during  the  voyage,  or  how 
many  pounds  of  butter, — not  even  whether  they  carried  the 
chickens  alive  or  in  cold  storage.  These  facts  would  have 
interested  the  old  lady  much  more  than  the  Veteran  Tar's 
story. 

In  fact,  as  Robert  told  himself  bitterly,  he  now  knew 
just  as  much  about  running  a  ship  as  when  he  first  came 
on  board,  and  that  was  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  too  late  now  to  redeem  himself.  In  a  vain  effort 
to  make  amends,  Robert  found  himself  counting  the  masts 
and  the  smoke-stacks  and  the  life-boats,  and  indeed  every 
thing  else  in  sight  whose  multiplicity  laid  it  open  to  the 
counting  process.  Where  he  could  not  count  and  measure, 
he  guessed  and  estimated. 

It  was  while  engaged  in  this  informing  operation  that 

51 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


Robert  heard  a  brisk  step  coming  along  the  deck.  He 
turned  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  either  Stephen  or  Don 
ald.  But  it  was  Alicia.  She  bade  him  a  cheery  good- 
morning,  and  passed  on  without  any  apparent  thought  of 
his  joining  her.  Robert  had  had  quite  enough  of  his  own 
company,  however,  and  jumped  at  this  chance  of  bettering 
it.  With  a  quickness  that  would  not  have  been  possible  to 
him  a  week  before,  he  asked  if  he  might  not  walk  with 
her.  Alicia  slackened  her  pace  enough  for  Robert  to  catch 
up  to  her  easily.  She  showed  neither  pleasure  nor  annoy 
ance  at  the  company  thus  thrust  upon  her.  She  turned  her 
face  toward  Robert  and  said  in  the  cheery,  impersonal 
way  that  he  had  come  to  know,  but  not  to  understand, 
"If  you  wish  to,  certainly." 

Robert  replied  rather  feebly  that  he  did  wish  to.  Alicia 
resumed  her  former  pace,  and  the  two  were  soon  walk 
ing  up  and  down  the  deck  at  a  speed  which  did  much 
to  restore  Robert's  circulation  and  bowl  over  his  con 
science. 

Robert  had  had  a  number  of  encounters  with  Alicia 
since  their  introductory  games  of  shuffle-board.  These  en 
counters  had  seemed  on  the  face  of  them  friendly,  even 
intimate,  and  our  young  school-girl  friends,  making  their 
first  little  journey  into  the  world,  had  easily  and  rapidly 
enmeshed  the  two  in  a  charming  romance.  Even  Stephen 
had  noticed  Robert's  evident  interest  in  Alicia,  and  with 
characteristic  judicial  mind  had  wondered  whether  it  would 
be  suitable.  But  the  man  and  woman  pacing  the  deck  to 
gether  in  such  a  brisk,  business-like  way  were  in  reality 
very  remote  from  each  other.  Robert  had  not  seen  as  much 
of  Alicia  as  he  wanted  to.  This  was  due  partly  to  her 

52 


THE   PASS   OF   LLANBERIS 


many  occupations,  and  partly  to  his  own  lack  of  social 
skill.  Just  why  he  wanted  to  see  more  of  her,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  for  him  to  say,  for  he  always  came 
away  from  such  meetings  as  they  had  feeling  baffled  and 
puzzled,  feeling,  in  fact,  that  they  had  not  touched  on  a 
single  point.  Sometimes  Robert  was  angry  at  Alicia,  some 
times  at  himself;  but  being,  like  all  the  Pendexters, 
uncompromisingly  honest,  he  was  commonly  angry  with 
himself.  He  had  to  acknowledge  that  while  Alicia's  world 
was  a  totally  undiscovered  world  to  him,  his  own  meagre, 
inexperienced  self  must  spread  out  before  her  like  an  open, 
unilluminated  scroll.  And  this  was  the  last  day  of  the 
voyage!  Robert  had  said  that  he  wanted  to  walk  with 
Alicia,  but  now  that  they  were  really  in  motion,  side  by 
side,  he  had  the  same  intuition  of  remoteness,  and  had 
nothing  to  say.  It  fell  to  Alicia  to  begin  the  talk.  She  did 
it  in  so  leisurely  a  fashion,  and  so  naturally,  that  Robert 
had  at  least  the  consolation  of  believing  that  she  had  failed 
to  notice  his  own  awkwardness. 

Alicia  always  turned  her  face  brightly  toward  the  per 
son  to  whom  she  spoke,  even  if  it  were  only  the  Veteran 
Tar.  Stephen  said  that  it  was  a  trick.  Donald,  on  the 
contrary,  maintained  that  it  was  the  outer  and  visible 
sign  of  an  inner  and  spiritual  directness.  Robert  did  not 
analyze  it,  but  he  knew  enough  to  realize  that,  whether 
trick  or  sign,  it  was  wholly  impersonal. 

Alicia's  first  remark  was  the  obvious  question  :  "  Did  I 
interrupt  some  pleasant  train  of  thought  when  I  came 
along  and  broke  in  on  you  ?  " 

Robert's  impulse  was  to  assure  Alicia  that  she  had  not 
broken  in  on  him,  but  he  refrained,  knowing  that  it  would 

53 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


only  add  to  the  remoteness,  and  answered  the  simple 
truth:  "It  wasn't  a  pleasant  train  of  thought.  I  was 
scolding  myself !  " 

Alicia  looked  at  Robert  quickly  to  see  if  he  were  in 
earnest,  and  then  made  rejoinder  in  the  same  cheery 
voice  :  "  Were  you  really,  —  that  is  very  unprofitable." 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  I  was  scolding  myself 
about,"  protested  Robert,  "  or  how  much  I  needed  it !  " 

"Nevertheless,"  replied  Alicia,  "it  is  very  unprofit 
able  to  be  scolding  any  one,  even  one's  self." 

"  Do  you  honestly  think  so  ?  "  asked  Robert,  in  sur 
prise.  "That  is  quite  different  from  the  Pendexter  tra 
ditions.  You  know  I  lived  with  my  aunt  before  I  went 
into  Boston.  She  would  have  said  that  it  was  very  im 
proving  to  think  over  all  you  'd  done  during  the  whole 
day,  every  detail  of  it,  you  know,  and  then  throw  it  up  to 
yourself,  all  the  bad  and  improper  things  you  'd  done,  — 
just  throw  it  up  to  yourself,  without  making  any  excuses 
at  all.  It 's  not  a  comfortable  process,  I  '11  own,  but  it 
must  do  you  a  lot  of  good." 

"  Because  it 's  uncomfortable  ?  "  asked  Alicia,  a  shade 
of  amusement  in  her  voice. 

"  Not  exactly  that,"  Robert  answered  ;  "  but  so  you  '11 
be  so  ashamed  of  yourself  you  won't  do  it  again." 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  great  waste  of  time  to  recall  your 
faults,"  said  Alicia,  "  and  another  waste  of  time  to  feel 
sorry  for  them." 

"  Probably  that 's  because  you  have  n't  any  faults  to 
recall  or  feel  sorry  for,"  Robert  suggested. 

Alicia  ignored  the  remark  as  completely  as  if  it  had 
never  been  made,  and  added  impersonally,  "  I  suppose 

54 


THE   PASS   OF   LLANBERIS 


it  is  the  difference  between  the  Western  and  the  Eastern 
point  of  view." 

"The  Pendexters  are  not  Westerners,"  said  Robert, 
quickly ;  "  they  have  always  lived  in  Massachusetts,  that 
is,  since  early  colonial  days." 

For  a  moment  Alicia  did  not  follow  this  abrupt  jump. 
Then  she  said,  a  little  impatiently :  "  Oh,  I  see  what  you 
mean.  But  I  did  n't  mean  that.  I  meant  the  difference 
between  our  Western  World,  Europe  and  America,  and 
the  Far  East,  Arabia  and  Persia  and  India." 

Robert  was  considerably  chagrined  at  his  clumsiness, 
but  reflected  that  it  only  added  one  more  to  a  tolerably 
long  list  of  similar  mistakes.  He  hurried  to  ask,  "  What 
would  you  say  is  the  difference  between  the  Western  and 
the  Eastern  point  of  view  ?  " 

Alicia,  apparently,  made  no  movement,  but  Robert  was 
instantly  aware  that  he  had  made  another  mistake.  This 
perplexing  lady  sometimes  asked  questions  herself,  —  in 
rather  a  casual  way,  it  is  true,  —  but  though  she  had  of 
course  never  put  it  into  words,  Robert  felt  it  quite  as 
keenly  as  if  she  had  shouted  it  at  him,  that  nothing  could 
have  been  less  to  her  liking  than  an  interrogative  style  of 
conversation.  It  would  have  been  vastly  better  if  he  had 
simply  said,  "  I  think  I  don't  know  the  Eastern  point  of 
view."  Then,  had  she  wanted  to,  she  could  have  enlight 
ened  him.  Robert  saw  all  this  in  a  flash,  but  the  same 
kindly  intuition  which  gave  him  this  insight  did  not  go 
farther  and  show  him  why  any  one  should  object  to  the 
hard-and-fast  questioning  which  forms  so  prominent  an 
element  in  the  conversational  method  of  New  England. 
At  Bolton,  Robert's  aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins  fairly 

55 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


peppered  him  with  questions,  when  he  went  up  there  on 
a  visit,  and  his  only  escape  had  been  the  Yankee  device 
of  answering  one  question  by  another. 

Alicia  replied,  quite  without  irritation,  but  more  as 
if  she  were  thinking  aloud  than  talking  to  any  one  in 
particular:  "You  evidently  know  the  Western  point 
of  view,  —  yours  and  your  aunt's.  Our  Eastern  attitude 
is  different.  We  believe  that  one  ought  not  to  criticise 
persons  —  " 

"  My  aunt  would  have  said  that  too,  though  she  would  n't 
for  worlds  have  practiced  it !  "  broke  in  Robert. 

"  Ah,  yes,  but  you  did  n't  catch  the  whole  spirit  of  this 
self-restraint.  An  Eastern  thinker  is  as  courteous  to  himself 
as  he  is  to  other  persons.  He  does  not  criticise  himself. 
He  makes  his  mistakes  and  gains  his  knowledge.  He  for 
gets  the  one  and  profits  by  the  other.  And  so  he  grows 
wise.  It  is  the  only  path !  " 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Robert,  "  that  my  aunt  would 
have  thought  such  a  doctrine  simply  dreadful,  and  I  'm 
afraid  that  I  do,  too.  It  leaves  no  room  for  repentance. 
Without  that,  I  don't  see  how  one  can  grow  better." 

In  his  eagerness,  Robert's  voice  had  become  a  trifle 
excited,  and  he  felt  rebuked  when  Alicia  answered,  even 
more  quietly  than  her  wont,  "  It  is  not  a  question  for  argu 
ment.  It  is  a  matter  for  feeling,  for  perception.  I  should 
not  be  willing  to  defend  the  oriental  point  of  view  in  any 
controversial  way.  Indeed,  I  seldom  speak  of  these  things. 
But  to  be  quite  fair,  I  must  add  that  this  self-conscious, 
Western  repentance  seems  to  me  to  be  either  morbidness, 
or  mere  phrasing,  and  to  bear  little  sound  fruit.  In  the 
East,  on  the  contrary,  repentance  is  not  self-conscious.  It 

50 


THE   PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


is  not  even  thought  of  as  meritorious,  at  least  not  in  India. 
It  is  an  actual  thing,  a  result  made  necessary  by  the  larger 
knowledge  that  brings  the  larger  vision.  Don't  you  see 
how  such  a  view  of  life  produces  a  wholly  different  breed 
of  man,  less  petty,  less  contemptibly  conscious  of  his  own 
faults  and  virtues,  more  cosmic,  more  worthy  of  love 
and  adoration?  For  myself,  I  much  prefer  an  uncon 
scious  sinner  with  his  face  turned  towards  Heaven  to  all 
your  introspective,  self-conscious  saints  glancing  fearfully 
towards  Hades ! " 

Alicia  spoke  with  such  quiet  intensity  that  Robert  felt 
his  breath  taken  away  and  could  only  say  rather  feebly, 
"  Oh,  do  you  really  feel  so  ?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  Alicia  answered,  smiling  at  her  own 
heat  and  at  poor  Robert's  bewilderment.  "  Only  I  ought, 
perhaps,  to  add,  lest  you  misunderstand  me,  that  in  my 
own  view  of  good  and  evil,  the  unconscious,  devoted  soul, 
turning  by  a  divine  instinct  towards  the  light,  is  really 
the  saint,  and  your  sickly,  self-conscious,  morbidly  re 
pentant  soul,  seeing  nothing  bigger  than  his  own  little 
qualities,  is  really  the  sinner !  " 

Robert  did  not  wholly  follow  Alicia's  thought,  but  he 
felt  that  she  had  been  at  some  pains  to  present  a  new 
point  of  view,  and  had  been  genuinely  kind,  so  he  said 
with  a  simplicity  which  always  showed  him  at  his  best, 
"  Thank  you  many  times.  I  shall  think  over  what  you 
have  said." 

"  Do,"  answered  Alicia,  with  equal  sincerity. 

The  bugle  sounded  for  breakfast  while  Alicia  was  speak 
ing,  so  she  added,  "  This  is  quite  dreadful,  to  have  dis 
cussed  such  great  matters  before  breakfast,  before  one's 

57 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


coffee,  but  perhaps  it's  better  to  have  done  it  audibly 
than  merely  to  have  scolded  one's  self." 

Robert  laughed,  and  followed  Alicia  towards  the  com- 
panionway.  When  they  reached  the  door,  Alicia,  by  some 
impulse  which  rather  puzzled  her  afterwards,  held  out 
her  hand  to  Robert.  "  Good-by,"  she  said,  somewhat  less 
impersonally  than  her  custom  ;  "I  shall  hardly  be  seeing 
you  again." 

"  Not  on  the  steamer,  I  'm  afraid,"  Robert  answered, 
"  but  I  hope  some  time  on  land."  He  was  going  to  ask 
her  address,  but  the  current  of  hungry  deck-trotters  had 
already  swept  her  out  of  hearing,  and  all  he  got  was  a 
smile  and  a  nod. 

As  Robert  made  his  way  towards  his  own  table,  he  re 
flected  that  he  did  not  even  know  Miss  Smith's  right 
name,  and  he  doubted,  with  a  little  feeling  of  dismay, 
whether  after  all  they  could  ever  have  been  friends,  for 
they  seemed  to  live  in  such  totally  different  worlds. 

It  was  about  ten  when  the  Republic  made  her  pier,  and 
the  gang-plank  completed  the  connection  between  America 
and  Europe.  Donald  had  followed  Stephen's  advice  so  lit 
erally  that  he  was  not  yet  packed  up,  and  his  two  friends 
had  to  wait  for  him  on  the  upper  deck.  Stephen,  in  spite 
of  his  contrary  theories,  was  orderliness  itself.  By  some 
happy  faculty  he  always  wore  precisely  the  right  thing, 
and  all  his  belongings  fell  into  precisely  the  right  sort  of 
receptacles.  To  Robert  these  belongings  seemed  trouble- 
somely  multitudinous,  —  a  trunk,  a  hat-box,  a  suit-case,  a 
toilet  bag,  a  shawl-strap,  an  umbrella,  a  cane,  —  but  he 
had  to  confess  that  each  was  perfect  of  its  kind.  He  knew, 
too,  from  his  frequent  visits  to  his  friend's  state-room,  that 

58 


THE  PASS  OF  LLANBERIS 


inside  these  several  receptacles  were  numerous  miniature 
bags  and  cases  for  all  sorts  of  toilet  articles,  collars  and 
cuffs,  handkerchiefs,  gloves,  patent  leather  shoes,  and  also 
that  inside  Stephen's  pockets  was  a  similar  array  of  card- 
cases,  wallets,  silver  match-boxes,  cigarette  cases,  and  the 
like.  Robert  had  never  known  any  one  quite  so  completely 
fitted  out.  It  made  his  own  outfit  seem  more  than  modest. 
As  Robert  could  not  associate  this  completeness  with  any 
plentiful  supply  of  money,  he  put  it  down,  in  Stephen's 
case,  as  the  orderly  attitude  of  the  legal  mind. 

Donald's  luggage  was  equally  characteristic.  It  con 
sisted  of  one  small  steamer  trunk,  which  showed  unmis 
takable  signs  of  decrepitude  from  having  habitually  had 
to  carry  much  more  than  it  was  intended  to  carry.  It 
bulged,  top,  bottom,  and  sides.  Donald's  present  difficulty 
was  not  due  to  any  over-nicety  in  his  ideas  of  packing,  but 
solely  to  his  inability  to  get  all  his  possessions  into  the 
one  small  trunk  and  still  fasten  the  lock.  In  despair,  he 
had  tumbled  everything  out  on  the  floor,  and  started  all 
over  again.  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Stephen  joined 
Robert  on  the  upper  deck.  They  stood  watching  the  other 
passengers  as  they  crowded  down  the  gang-plank  and  flut 
tered  about  the  pier.  Robert  was  too  much  interested  to 
feel  any  impatience  at  their  own  delay.  He  scanned  the 
faces  eagerly. 

"  Well,"  said  Stephen,  "  are  you  able  to  pick  her  out  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  don't  see  anything  of  her." 

"  See !  "  echoed  Stephen.  "  It 's  not  a  question  of 
seeing,  but  of  hearing.  We  are  evidently  thinking  of 
different  people.  I  don't  mean  Miss  Smith,  I  mean 
Sappho." 

59 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Robert  chose  to  ignore  the  thrust  and  said  simply,  "  I 
don't  think  we  shall  see  either  of  them  again." 

"  As  one  of  them  we  can't  be  said  to  have  seen  at  all 
yet,  your  language  lacks  accuracy." 

"  Quite  right,"  admitted  Robert ;  "  but  be  merciful. 
We  have  n't  all  been  to  the  Law  School." 

"  By  Jove,  that 's  so,"  answered  Stephen,  as  if  the  re 
mark  were  sufficiently  novel  to  deserve  attention,  "  and 
mighty  lucky  it  is  for  the  legal  pocket-book.  Do  you 
know,  little  Pen,  that  law  is  getting  to  be  more  and  more 
a  question  of  English,  and  less  and  less  a  question  of 
statutes?" 

At  last  Donald  joined  them,  and  announced  that  the 
feat  had  been  accomplished,  and  that  his  trunk  was  on  its 
way  to  the  customs. 

Stephen  groaned,  and  asked  if  that  meant  the  necessity 
for  another  feat. 

"  No,"  said  Donald,  blandly,  "  I  tied  a  rope  around  my 
poor  little  trunk,  tied  it  very  elaborately,  you  know,  and 
I  '11  look  so  innocent  that  the  customs  gentles  will  never 
have  the  heart  to  ask  me  to  untie  it." 

"  If  that 's  your  little  game,  you  'd  better  get  Pen  to 
work  it.  That  feat  of  yours,  by  the  way,  is  too  time-con 
suming  to  be  repeated.  Do  you  know  what  we  shall  do, 
my  hearties,  when  our  feet  first  touch  British  soil?" 

"  We  shall  fall  on  our  knees,"  cried  Donald,  dramati 
cally,  "  and  kiss  the  dirt  of  the  beloved  mother  country !  " 

"  We  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  unless  we  strike  a 
banana  skin,"  Stephen  declared  emphatically,  "  and  it 
won't  be  necessary.  The  dirt  will  kiss  you,  especially  the 
smoke.  No,  my  children,  like  good  Americans,  we  shall 

60 


THE   PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


first  go  shopping.  Being  proud  and  stylish,  we  will  buy 
a  kit  for  the  poet,  a  kit  big  enough  to  hold  the  overflow 
and  enable  us  occasionally  to  make  the  train  we  started 
out  for !  " 

It  was  not  such  a  bad  plan,  for  Liverpool  has  little  to 
offer  beyond  the  trains  for  getting  away.  Robert  felt  the 
plan  to  be  rather  frivolous,  but  on  the  whole  pleasurable, 
especially  as  he  did  not  have  the  agony  of  the  selection. 
Donald  was  for  taking  the  first  kit  they  saw,  but  Stephen 
was  fastidious,  and  dragged  them  around  to  at  least  half  a 
dozen  shops  before  he  allowed  a  purchase.  Even  then,  he 
looked  at  the  ungainly  kit  so  ruefully  that  Donald,  quite 
ignoring  the  fact  that  the  ungainliness  was  to  be  his 
own  possession,  began  humming,  "  Alas,  poor  kitty,  lend 
her  your  pity.  She  had  reached  seven,  and  never  called 
pretty." 

In  the  early  afternoon,  when  they  found  themselves 
down  at  Chester,  Robert's  enthusiasm  quite  returned.  It 
was  his  first  glimpse  of  a  walled  town  and  of  an  English 
cathedral.  Even  the  gloomy  Grosvenor  Inn,  tucked  away 
under  its  shadowing  arcade,  came  in  for  his  approval. 
Before  dinner,  the  three  friends  had  gone  the  complete 
round  of  the  walls,  up  and  down,  around  towers,  over 
arched  gates,  across  the  gaps,  and  had  done  the  cathedral 
so  thoroughly  that  even  Robert  was  satisfied.  His  Aunt 
Matilda  Pendexter  could  have  found  no  fault  with  him. 
He  had  traced  every  architectural  period,  Early  English, 
Perpendicular,  Debased  Gothic,  and  as  far  as  the  fact- 
loving  Baedeker  could  inform  him,  knew  every  date  con 
nected  with  the  building. 

It  is  easy  to  grow  enthusiastic  over  Chester.  In  the  first 

61 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


place,  it  is  really  quaint  and  beautiful.  In  the  second 
place,  one  commonly  goes  there  from  Liverpool.  In  addi 
tion  to  this,  the  sun  was  shining  bravely  on  this  particu 
lar  afternoon,  and  Eobert  saw  town,  walls,  and  cathedral 
in  the  late  afternoon  light.  The  long,  slanting  shadows 
lent  a  touch  of  mystery,  and  the  penetrating  sunbeams 
brought  out  all  the  warmth  in  the  old  red  standstone,  and 
all  the  coolness  in  the  abundant  greenery. 

Robert's  heart  sang  within  him.  This  was  the  Europe 
that  he  had  dreamed  about !  He  wondered  why  he  had 
regretted  leaving  the  steamer.  He  did  not  know  that  in 
all  the  world  there  is  no  walk  quite  so  delightful  as  the 
first  real  walk  one  takes  after  a  long  voyage. 

Stephen  had  been  in  Chester  before.  He  enjoyed  it  in 
his  own  thorough,  quiet  way,  but  most  of  all  he  enjoyed 
seeing  Robert  and  Donald  enjoy  it :  Robert  in  his  consci 
entious,  New  England  fashion,  over-regardful  of  detail 
and  statistics,  Donald  with  a  poet's  sensuous  indifference  to 
all  but  general  and  striking  impressions.  Stephen,  as  the 
most  experienced  traveler,  made  the  plans.  It  was  Friday 
evening,  and  thinking  that  a  quiet  Sunday  would  be  good 
for  his  two  friends,  he  had  arranged  to  remain  in  Chester 
until  Monday  and  then  go  north  to  the  Lake  District. 
Donald,  in  his  lazy,  happy-go-lucky  way,  was  entirely 
acquiescent.  But  Robert,  the  erstwhile  invalid,  was  now 
the  alert,  intelligent  tourist,  bent  on  seeing  everything 
that  was  to  be  seen.  By  the  help  of  his  inseparable  guide 
book,  he  had  discovered  how  near  they  were  to  the  glories 
of  North  Wales.  With  a  sagacity  that  quite  astonished 
Stephen,  Robert  drew  up  a  complete  plan,  showing  how 
they  could  make  a  rapid  descent  upon  Wales,  capture  two 

62 


THE  PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


days  of  the  best  Welsh  scenery,  and  still  start  for  Winder- 
mere  on  Monday  afternoon.  It  was  eminently  character 
istic  that  what  pleased  Robert  most  in  the  proposed  expe 
dition  was  the  fact  that  it  would  be  so  much  extra,  an 
out-and-out  gift  of  the  gods,  and  could  be  had  without 
cutting  anything  else  out.  Stephen  called  this  Yankee-like, 
and  Donald  said  it  was  thrifty  beyond  belief,  but  no 
amount  of  friendly  ridicule  could  lessen  Robert's  satis 
faction. 

So  it  happened  that  Saturday  found  the  three  friends 
making  their  way  westward  as  fast  as  the  afternoon  ex 
press  would  carry  them,  along  the  rocky  coast  to  the  wild 
headlands  that  overlook  Anglesea,  and  then,  with  a  wide 
sweep  to  the  south  and  east,  up  to  Llanberis.  It  was  five 
o'clock  when  they  reached  the  little  hamlet  and  started 
on  foot  up  the  six-mile  road  that  leads  to  the  Pass.  The 
sense  of  being  in  a  foreign  country  was  greatly  heightened 
by  the  strange  Welsh  language  that  now  met  them  on  all 
sides.  The  Welsh  Sunday  began  at  sundown",  and  as  it 
was  the  time  of  the  great  religious  revival  which  recently 
swept  over  Wales,  the  spectacle  of  three  young  men  tramp 
ing  so  manifestly  for  pleasure  called  forth  looks  and  even 
words  of  disapproval. 

The  road  soon  emerged  from  the  village  and  skirted  the 
gigantic  stone  quarries  which  bring  profit  and  ugliness 
to  the  lower  part  of  the  valley.  In  time  these,  too,  were 
passed.  The  narrow,  grayish  ribbon  of  road  wound  up  and 
up  through  the  stony,  unfertile  Pass  until  it  lost  itself 
against  the  sky  between  the  sombre  outlines  of  the  dark 
masses  of  mountain.  Robert  had  seen  beautiful  scenery  at 
home,  but  none  that  seemed  so  near  and  intimate  as  this, 

63 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


so  much  a  part  of  himself.  As  the  friends  mounted  higher, 
the  sunset  glories  grew  more  and  more  masterful.  The 
earth  melted  into  a  gray  monochrome,  and  the  sky  was 
everything.  When  occasionally  they  turned  and  looked 
back  of  them,  they  caught  glimpses  of  a  shimmering  island, 
and  beyond  it,  of  the  western  sea. 

There  was  little  talking.  Each,  in  his  own  way,  walked 
alone  with  Nature. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  they  reached  the  summit  of 
the  Pass.  At  the  very  top,  just  where  the  road  spills  over 
to  the  east,  they  found  a  picturesque  white-walled  inn. 
Robert  had  never  seen  an  inn  that  he  liked  quite  so  much. 
It  was  so  high  up,  at  the  very  crest  of  the  Pass,  and  yet 
it  nestled  low  against  the  earth,  the  picture  of  homely 
comfort.  He  liked  the  name,  too,  Gorphwysfa  Inn,  for 
it  suggested  new  and  unknown  worlds.  It  was  the  sort  of 
a  place  where  one  might  expect  something  to  happen.  The 
friends  pushed  open  the  door  and  walked  in.  They  found 
themselves  in  a  low  hall,  now  quite  deserted,  but  amazingly 
comfortable-looking.  A  fire  of  sea  coals  blazed  and  sput 
tered  on  the  hearth.  They  could  see  the  outlines  of  vacant 
chairs,  while  from  various  parts  of  the  room,  from  tables, 
walls,  and  mantel-shelf,  came  the  glimmer  of  highly  bur 
nished  copper.  Robert  and  Donald  gave  exclamations  of 
delight,  and  even  the  undemonstrative  Stephen  allowed 
himself  a  grunt  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  wonder  where  all  the  people  are,"  said  Robert. 

"  Did  you  cross  on  a  British  steamer,  or  did  you  not  ?  " 
asked  Donald,  with  assumed  severity. 

"  I  certainly  did." 

"  And  don't  you  know  where  the  people  are  ?  " 

64 


THE   PASS   OF   LLANBERIS 


"No,"  answered  Robert,  wondering  if  he  were  hope 
lessly  stupid. 

"  At  this  sacred  hour,"  said  Donald,  oracularly,  "  every 
mother's  son  of  them  has  a  little  tin  pitcher  marked  4  Hot 
Water '  before  him,  and  is  dressing  for  that  solemn  occa 
sion  known  as  dinner." 

Stephen,  meanwhile,  had  been  investigating  the  darker 
corners  of  the  hall  in  the  hope  of  establishing  communica 
tions  with  the  proprietor.  He  stumbled,  and  almost  fell, 
over  a  motley  collection  of  shoes,  at  least  a  score  of  pairs 
stretched  out  in  a  double  row.  "  Do  you  see  those  shoes  ?  " 
he  demanded,  as  he  recovered  his  balance. 

"  Some  of  them,"  said  Robert,  peering  into  the  gloom. 
"  How  funny !  Do  you  suppose  we  've  got  into  a  shoe 
maker's  shop  ?  " 

"  Worse  than  that,  little  Pen.  Far  worse  than  that !  " 

"  A  lunatic  asylum  ?  "  Donald  proposed  cheerfully. 

"  Still  worse,  sonny.  Those  shoes  —  mark  my  words !  — 
mean  that  the  inn  is  full,  and  that  there  are  no  beds  for 
the  gallant  Americans." 

"  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  "  exclaimed  Robert  and  Donald 
in  concert,  for  this  possibility  had  never  occurred  to  them. 

Their  exclamations  brought  a  housemaid  from  what 
appeared  to  be  a  luminous  hole  in  the  wall,  but  which  was 
in  reality  merely  a  door  leading  into  the  lighted  tap-room  ; 
and  she  in  turn  brought  a  brisk  little  woman  heralded  as 
the  proprietress  of  the  establishment. 

Stephen's  surmise  was  dismally  accurate,  —  not  a  vacant 
room  remained.  He  got  some  satisfaction  out  of  it,  as  a 
triumph  of  sound  inductive  reasoning,  but  the  others  failed 
to  share  it. 

65 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


There  was  one  room  with  two  beds  in  it,  the  licensed 
victualer  finally  remembered,  a  room  that  two  gentlemen 
had  written  for  early  in  the  week.  She  was  only  to  keep 
it  for  them  until  eight  o'clock.  The  Americans  might 
have  dinner  if  they  liked,  and  see  if  the  other  gentlemen 
turned  up. 

Robert  was  minded  to  ask  what  would  happen  to  them 
if  the  others  did  turn  up,  for  the  point  seemed  to  him  im 
portant,  but  Stephen  discreetly  headed  him  off  by  promptly 
accepting  the  offer.  "  If  we  have  dinner  here,"  he  con 
fided  to  the  others,  "  it  will  be  one  point  gained,  and  it  will 
be  up  to  the  bright-eyed  licensed  victualer  to  make  some 
provision  for  us.  Also,  my  hearties,  if  we  dont  have 
dinner  here,  where  will  we  have  it  ?  " 

The  three  friends  sat  down  rather  disconsolately,  some 
of  the  cheeriness  of  the  room  having  subtly  melted  away. 
As  became  guests  whose  welcome  was  not  yet  assured, 
they  sat  in  the  gloom  surrounding  the  walls,  and  left  the 
easy  chairs  in  front  of  the  fire  for  those  who  had  a  better 
right  to  them.  It  might  be  added  that  the  conversation 
was  not  very  lively. 

Presently  another  luminous  hole  appeared  in  a  distant 
corner  of  the  room,  —  this  time  an  opened  door  into  what 
seemed  to  be  a  private  parlor.  A  young  woman  in  a  pretty 
dinner-gown  made  her  way  over  the  rows  of  shoes,  and 
took  one  of  the  chairs  in  front  of  the  fire.  She  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  small  boy  of  thirteen  or  fourteen,  who  seemed 
mostly  legs  and  arms,  but  as  he  came  nearer  the  fire  he 
showed  a  bright  little  face,  with  a  freckled  snub  nose  and 
a  pair  of  eyes  that  fairly  danced.  He  also  was  dressed  for 
dinner.  He  wore  an  Eton  jacket  and  broad  linen  collar, 

66 


THE   PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


but  they  did  not  disguise  the  fact  that  he  was  an  American. 
As  the  young  woman  sat  down,  she  said,  without  looking 
around,  "  Billy,  do  tell  father  to  stop  reading  and  come 
and  enjoy  the  fire." 

Billy  skipped  back  into  the  parlor  to  deliver  her 
message. 

Meanwhile  our  three  young  friends  had  risen,  and  re 
mained  standing  until  the  young  woman  had  seated  her 
self.  Then  they  all  sat  down.  The  young  woman  had  not 
seen  them  as  she  entered  the  hall,  her  whole  attention 
being  given  to  the  fire.  The  slight  noise  attracted  her 
notice.  She  looked  up  quickly  and  caught  sight  of  Stephen 
sitting  in  the  gloom  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace.  She 
glanced  over  at  the  other  side,  and  saw  Donald ;  then  a 
little  further,  and  saw  Robert.  With  a  droll  motion  of 
her  head,  she  turned  quite  around  to  see  if  there  were 
any  more  men.  She  had  thought  the  room  empty,  but 
strange  young  men  seemed  appearing  on  all  sides. 

Robert  laughed  a  quiet  little  boyish  laugh  that  would 
have  been  reassuring,  had  the  young  woman  been  fright 
ened.  "No,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  inquiring  look, 
"  there  are  no  more  of  us,  —  just  the  three.  I  hope  we 
did  n't  startle  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered  calmly.  "  I  was  only  sur 
prised.  But  where  did  you  all  come  from  ?  " 

As  her  glance  took  in  Stephen  last,  he  answered  quickly, 
"  That  depends  on  how  much  time  your  question  covers. 
We  came  from  Llanberis  Village,  or  from  Chester,  or  from 
Liverpool,  or  from  Boston,  —  just  as  you  please." 

"I  knew  you  were  Americans.  But  how  did  you  get 
here?" 

67 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  We  walked,"  answered  Donald,  as  the  young  woman's 
glance  happened  to  turn  in  his  direction.  "  We  walked 
eighteen  miles  from  Llanberis  Village,  our  heads  in  the 
sunset,  our  feet  on  a  grayish  white  wriggly  thing  that 
seemed  to  crawl  up  the  Pass  like  a  great  serpent." 

Billy  had  now  returned  from  his  errand,  and  was  star 
ing,  open-mouthed,  at  the  strangers.  "  But  it 's  only  six 
miles  to  Llanberis,"  he  burst  in.  "  Pauline  and  I  walked 
there  this  afternoon,  and  back  again,  too." 

"  True,"  said  Donald,  gravely,  "  but  you  seem  to  have 
forgotten  your  arithmetic,  Billy.  There  were  three  of  us, 
so  that  made  eighteen." 

"  Humph,"  answered  Billy ;  "  that 's  an  Irish  way  of 
counting !  " 

Pauline  ignored  this  tangle  of  dimensions  and  said  to  no 
one  in  particular,  "  Is  n't  this  the  dearest  place  ?  We  've 
been  here  a  week,  and  I  should  like  to  stay  indefinitely, 
but  we  've  promised  Billy  to  take  him  to  the  Lakes  before 
he  goes  back  to  school." 

"  It 's  quaint  enough,  all  right,"  Stephen  answered ; 
"  but  whether  we  like  it  or  not  will  depend  upon  circum 
stances." 

"  Upon  circumstances  ?  "  repeated  Pauline.  "  Do  you 
mean  your  dinner  ?  That  will  be  good.  Or  do  you  mean 
the  weather  to-morrow?  That  will  be  cloudy.  Billy  and 
I  are  going  to  the  top  of  Snowdon,  though.  Whatever 
comes,  we  're  bound  to  say  good-by  to  it,  rain  or  shine." 

"  Neither  the  dinner  nor  the  weather  troubles  ws,"  an 
swered  Stephen ;  "  our  happiness  depends  upon  whether 
we  get  any  beds  to  sleep  on.  Your  fair  licensed  victualer 
does  n't  know  yet  whether  she  can  keep  us  overnight." 

68 


THE   PASS   OF   LLANBERIS 


"  And  won't  know  until  eight  o'clock,"  put  in  Robert. 

Pauline  turned  to  her  brother.  "Do  you  hear  that, 
Billy  ?  These  men  have  no  place  to  sleep.  I  've  said  all 
along  that  we  are  taking  more  room  than  our  share.  You 
must  sleep  in  the  parlor  and  let  these  men  have  your 
room."  She  turned  to  our  three  young  friends  and  ex 
plained  :  "  It  has  a  double  bed  in  it,  and  a  sofa,  so  perhaps 
you  can  manage." 

The  friends  protested  that  they  could  not  think  of  such 
an  intrusion,  but  Pauline  disposed  of  their  objections  with 
out  so  much  as  considering  them.  She  turned  once  more 
to  her  small  brother.  "  Is  your  room  in  order,  Billy?  "  — 
Billy  nodded  —  "  then  take  these  men  in  at  once.  They 
may  want  to  get  ready  for  dinner." 

Billy  proved  a  willing  host.  He  was  on  his  feet  in  an 
instant,  but  before  he  led  the  way,  he  turned  to  Donald 
and  said  slyly,  "  It 's  a  long  distance  to  my  room,  you 
know,  —  awful  long  distance." 

"Is  it?"  asked  Donald,  in  surprise.  "The  inn  looked 
small  enough  from  the  outside." 

"  But  there  are  four  of  us  to  go  it,  you  know.  Remem 
ber  your  arithmetic !  "  and  Billy  shouted  with  laughter. 

"  Don't  be  so  pert,  Billy,"  said  Pauline.  But  Donald 
protested  that  he  had  brought  it  on  himself. 

Our  three  young  friends  had  very  little  material  with 
which  to  improve  their  appearance,  but  when  at  last  they 
came  out  to  dinner,  with  their  glowing  faces,  carefully 
arranged  hair,  fresh  collars  and  neckties,  and  thoroughly 
brushed  clothes,  they  looked  very  fit,  in  spite  of  the  absence 
of  dinner-coats.  The  other  guests  had  already  assembled. 
The  Marshalls  sat  at  the  long  centre  table,  Pauline  at  the 

69 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


end,  with  Billy  on  her  left,  and  Mr.  Marshall  next  to  Billy. 
The  three  places  on  her  right  had  been  reserved  for  the 
Americans.  Stephen  arranged  the  seating  quite  unselfishly, 
placing  Robert  next  to  Pauline,  then  Donald,  and  then 
himself.  Pauline  presented  them  collectively  to  her  father, 
and  each  man  in  bowing  supplied  his  own  name,  —  "Mr. 
Pendexter  "  —  "  Donald  Fergusson  "  —  "  Morse,"  —  and 
each  did  it  characteristically. 

The  British  guests  looked  somewhat  shocked  at  this 
rapid  familiarity ;  that  is,  all  except  a  few  who  had  been 
out  in  India  and  the  colonies. 

Billy  was  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  and,  with  the  horri 
ble  tenacity  which  small  boys  show  for  any  pleasantry  that 
they  clearly  comprehend,  remarked,  as  soon  as  they  were 
seated,  "  It  was  n't  so  far  to  the  dining-room  as  it  was  to 
my  room,  was  it  ?  Only  three  fourths  of  the  way ! " 

Donald  looked  as  if  he  would  let  small  boys  severely 
alone  in  the  future,  but  Stephen  headed  off  any  further 
arithmetic  by  saying  that  it  is  always  a  short  distance  to 
the  dining-room,  when  one  is  hungry. 

"  Pauline  likes  Americans,"  remarked  Billy. 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  answered  Pauline,  without  the  least 
shade  of  embarrassment.  "  You  do,  too." 

Meanwhile  Robert  was  meeting  an  experience,  perhaps 
the  one  foreshadowed  when  he  entered  the  inn.  His  en 
counter  with  Pauline  in  the  firelight  had  put  them  at  once 
upon  the  friendliest  terms,  but  until  now  he  had  not  really 
seen  her.  And  what  he  saw  produced  upon  him  a  novel 
impression.  Robert  had  a  well-developed  dislike  for  women 
in  general.  His  cousins  at  Bolton,  nice  as  they  were, 
frankly  bored  him.  The  women  who  passed  in  and  out  at 

70 


THE  PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


Pinckney  Street  were  commonly  either  plain  or  coquet 
tish.  They  belonged  unmistakably  to  his  own  class.  They 
were  the  sort  of  women  whom  junior  clerks  in  the  spice 
trade  most  commonly  meet  and  most  commonly  marry. 
But  instead  of  arousing  any  desire  on  Robert's  part, 
they  had  filled  him  with  an  aversion  which  he  easily 
transferred  to  women  as  a  whole.  He  had  reached  thirty- 
four  without  the  slightest  shadow  of  a  love  affair.  He 
even  failed  to  understand  the  remark  when  Donald  as 
sured  him  quite  seriously  that  he  ought  to  be  heartily 
ashamed  of  himself  to  confess  to  such  a  deplorable  lack 
of  temperament. 

Robert  belonged  to  that  rather  large  company  of  per 
sons  whose  circumstances  place  them  in  one  social  group, 
while  an  ill-defined  undercurrent  of  instincts  and  intui 
tions  keeps  them  forever  aliens  in  their  own  class.  Such 
persons  are  peculiarly  open  to  that  half-conversion  and 
half-transference  to  another  class  which  constitute  one  of 
the  hopeful  tragedies  of  life. 

Robert  was  a  thorough-going  old  bachelor.  Old  bache 
lors  are  supposed,  by  their  women  friends  at  least,  to 
possess  a  fund  of  sentimentality  hidden  away  somewhere 
in  their  nature,  which  needs  only  to  be  touched  by  the 
right  person  to  manifest  itself  either  sublimely  or  ridicu 
lously.  But  Robert  was  as  devoid  of  sentimentality  as 
any  human  being  well  could  be.  The  nearest  approach  to 
a  romance  in  the  whole  of  his  prosaic  life  was  his  grow 
ing  affection  for  Stephen,  and  that  had  been  called  out 
solely  by  Stephen's  outspoken  liking  for  him.  Robert's 
interest  in  Alicia  was  devoid  of  even  the  color  of  ro 
mance.  Could  they  have  understood  it,  those  young 

71 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


school-girls  on  the  steamer,  making  their  first  little  jour 
ney  into  the  world,  they  would  have  been  quite  bowled 
over  with  disappointment  at  the  failure  of  romance  to 
touch  the  whole  of  life.  Robert  had  never  felt  so  keen  an 
interest  in  any  woman  as  he  had  in  Alicia,  but  it  was  not 
in  Alicia  as  a  woman,  as  a  possible  object  of  love,  hardly 
even  of  friendship.  It  was  wholly  because  some  blind  in 
stinct —  completely  as  he  failed  to  understand  Alicia  — 
told  him  that  her  way  of  life  was  different  from  his  own, 
and  immeasurably  better.  A  keen  spiritual  hunger  made 
him  reach  out  to  Alicia  as  the  guardian  of  an  inner  light, 
which,  if  he  too  could  only  see,  would  also  be  a  guide  to 
him. 

In  meeting  Pauline,  Robert  met  a  woman  for  whom  he 
was  quite  unprepared.  She  belonged  to  a  type  wholly  un 
known  to  him.  It  was  not  that  Pauline  was  remarkable, 
unless  it  is  remarkable  to  be  free  from  all  those  qualities 
and  affectations  which  in  the  Pinckney  Street  women 
offended  so  sensitive  a  person  as  Robert.  Pauline  was  un 
spoiled,  just  a  healthy,  natural,  American  girl  in  the  early 
twenties.  She  was  as  little  self-conscious  as  Billy  himself, 
and  quite  devoid  of  any  desire  to  attract  men  or  repel 
them.  It  would  sound  odd  to  speak  of  Pauline's  beauty. 
What  she  possessed  would  better  be  described  as  good 
looks,  much  the  same  sort  of  good  looks  that  healthy  out 
door  boys  have.  To-night  Pauline's  good  looks  were  at 
their  best.  She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  cashmere  gown  of 
light  lavender,  with  a  touch  of  embroidery  of  a  somewhat 
darker  shade.  The  sleeves  extended  only  to  the  elbows, 
while  the  waist  of  the  gown  ended  above  in  a  circular, 
embroidered  ruffle  at  a  sufficient  distance  below  the  throat 

72 


THE   PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


to  allow  the  strong  neck  and  head  to  rise  out  of  it  like 
some  sturdy  flower.  Pauline's  hair  was  drawn  back  from 
her  temples  in  a  loose  curve,  and  gathered  into  the  sim 
plest  possible  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  wore  no 
jewelry  of  any  kind. 

Pauline  had  finished  her  soup,  and  sat  with  both  hands 
resting  idly  on  the  table. 

As  Robert  sat  down,  he  took  in  all  the  simple  details 
of  this  new  type  of  woman  in  one  long,  inclusive  glance. 
And  then  something  happened  to  him.  He  felt  confused 
and  awkward,  even  ashamed.  Never  before  had  he  wanted 
to  touch  a  woman,  but  now,  as  he  drew  up  his  chair  to 
the  table,  a  swift,  imperious  desire  came  over  him  to  seize 
the  strong,  shapely  hand  lying  there  before  him  and  to 
cover  it  with  kisses.  The  color  flew  into  his  face,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Pauline  must  know,  and  that  such  a 
feeling  on  his  part  was  a  great  liberty,  in  fact  distinctly 
improper.  In  the  firelit  hall,  he  had  been  wholly  unem 
barrassed,  had  been  the  first  to  speak,  indeed,  but  now  he 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  say  a  word.  As  the  occu 
pant  of  the  seat  of  honor,  at  Pauline's  right  hand,  he  felt 
that  he  must  at  least  make  the  effort,  and  also  that  the 
remark,  whatever  it  might  be,  must  be  addressed  to  her. 
He  said  rather  lamely,  "  How  did  you  know  that  we  were 
Americans?" 

The  remark  proved  happier  than  he  could  have  hoped, 
for  Stephen  at  once  joined  in  :  "  That 's  what  I  want  to 
know,  too.  We  hadn't  spoken.  Our  English  friends 
always  say  that  our  voices  give  us  away;  that  we  speak 
through  our  noses.  And  you  couldn't  have  really  seen 
us,  coming  as  you  did  from  such  a  light  room  into 

73 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


such  a  dark  one.  How  did  you  know,  or  was  it  only  a 
guess?" 

"  No,  it  was  n't  a  guess,"  said  Pauline,  answering  both 
men  at  once,  and  openly  pleased  to  be  surrounded  once 
more  with  her  compatriots.  "  I  really  knew,  honor  bright. 
How  did  I  know  ?  Let  me  see.  Oh,  I  remember.  It  was 
because  you  all  stood  up." 

"  But  you  did  n't  see  us,  or  even  hear  us,"  persisted 
Stephen.  "  You  only  heard  us  sit  down." 

Pauline  laughed  as  unaffectedly  as  Billy  himself.  "  I 
would  have  been  a  stupid,  would  I  not,  if  I  had  n't  known 
that  you  must  have  stood  up  together,  if  you  all  flopped 
down  together  ?  You  could  hardly  have  been  standing  up 
against  the  wall  when  Billy  and  I  came  in.  It  would  have 
been  too  silly  !  " 

"  That 's  good  inductive  reasoning,  all  right,"  Stephen 
replied,  so  lightly  that  it  did  not  sound  patronizing. 

"Wouldn't  Englishmen  have  stood  up?  "  asked  Kobert, 
with  real  interest. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  Pauline  answered  ;  "not  even  if  they 
had  been  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire." 

"  They  're  an  unmannerly  set  of  beggars,"  announced 
Donald,  unconcernedly,  quite  unconscious  that  at  least 
four  of  the  nationality  under  discussion  were  looking  at 
him  with  raised  eyebrows.  "  It 's  a  wonder  that  they  don't 
learn  some  manners,  when  so  many  Americans  come  over 
here  every  year." 

"  But  they  're  really  not  unmannerly,  you  know,"  Paul 
ine  said  hurriedly.  "  It 's  only  that  they  have  a  different 
standard.  Englishmen  always  do  what  I  don't  expect 
them  to  do,  and  generally  fail  to  do  what  I  expect.  My 

74 


THE   PASS   OF  LLANBERIS 


father  says  it 's  only  the  difference  in  the  national 
standard." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Donald,  composedly.  "  It 's  the  key 
that  one  needs.  I  '11  suggest  it  to  Mr.  Baedeker.  He 
might  publish  it  in  his  guide-book  right  after  the  table  of 
money,  —  Key  to  English  Manners.  It  would  strengthen 
the  Anglo-American  alliance  immensely." 

"  Turn  about  is  only  fair  play,"  suggested  Stephen.  "  I 
fancy  they  would  have  to  put  in  our  own  guide-books  a 
key  to  American  manners" ;  and  then  he  added,  solely  for 
the  purpose  of  getting  the  poet  on  safer  ground,  "  Did 
I  understand  you  to  say,  Miss  Marshall,  that  you  know 
the  country  hereabouts  ?  Perhaps  you  can  advise  us  on  the 
Snowdon  trip." 

Meanwhile  the  two  strange  gentlemen  had  arrived,  and 
the  indebtedness  of  our  three  young  friends  to  Pauline  was 
complete  and  absolute.  The  licensed  victualer  was  cut 
ting  up  cold  joints  at  a  side  table.  This,  in  fact,  was  her 
usual  occupation.  She  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise 
that  these  troublesome,  outspoken  young  gentlemen  would 
have  to  move  on.  When  she  learned  that  the  Marshalls 
had  arranged  to  take  them  in,  she  could  offer  no  objec 
tion,  for  a  family  that  engages  four  rooms  for  three  per 
sons  and  does  n't  scrutinize  the  extras  is  not  to  be  lightly 
offended. 

The  other  guests  seemed  very  much  afraid  of  getting 
acquainted  with  one  another,  and  went  to  their  rooms 
directly  after  dinner.  This  left  the  big  hall,  with  its  cheery 
fire  and  glimmering  copper,  wholly  to  the  Americans. 
Billy  fastened  himself  to  Donald,  and  insisted  that  they 
two  should  sit  on  the  settle.  In  spite  of  his  dinner  reso- 

75 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


lution,  it  ended  by  Donald's  giving  up  his  whole  evening 
to  Billy.  The  little  fellow  snuggled  up  to  him  comfortably 
and  listened  to  one  story  after  another.  Robert  had  won 
dered  how  Donald  could  ever  be  a  good  teacher,  —  he  was 
such  a  careless,  happy-go-lucky  fellow.  When  he  saw  him 
with  Billy,  he  understood. 

The  others  sat  in  a  group  before  the  fire.  Stephen  and 
Pauline  did  most  of  the  talking,  Mr.  Marshall  throwing 
in  an  occasional  word.  Poor  Eobert  was  fast  losing  the 
power  of  speech.  He  sat  where  he  could  watch  Pauline. 
He  felt  that  he  ought  not  to  do  it,  that  it  was  a  perfectly 
shameless  thing  to  do,  but  nothing  short  of  a  bandage 
over  his  eyes  could  have  kept  him  from  it.  No  one  seemed 
to  notice  it,  Pauline  least  of  all.  Before  they  separated 
for  the  night,  it  was  arranged  that  the  next  day  Pauline 
and  Billy  should  take  the  three  friends  to  the  top  of 
Snowdon.  Mr.  Marshall  said  that  he  would  see  them  well 
on  their  way,  but  would  hardly  go  to  the  top. 

Robert  did  not  sleep  as  well  that  night  as  he  had  been 
sleeping  on  the  Republic.  Like  all  people  who  open  their 
eyes  more  than  once  during  the  night,  he  fancied  that  he 
had  not  slept  at  all. 


CHAPTER  V 
IN  THE  CLOUDS 

PAULINE'S  prediction  came  true.  On  Sunday,  Snowdon 
was  under  a  heavy  cap  of  cloud.  At  times  this  mantle 
swept  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain  in  giant  folds  that 
completely  surrounded  the  little  inn.  At  other  moments 
varying  currents  of  air  tossed  the  clouds  aside  and  sent 
them  in  great  billows  down  the  Pass  of  Llanberis,  per 
mitting  an  outlook  towards  Capel  Curig.  Then  the  clouds 
would  surge  back  again,  engulfing  the  inn  in  one  vague 
sea  of  grayness.  A  few  moments  later,  the  deluge  of  cloud 
would  spill  over  to  the  eastward,  and  allow  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  the  narrow,  snake-like  road  that  leads  down  the 
Pass  towards  the  sea. 

Robert  was  quite  miserable  with  apprehension,  and 
ashamed  that  he  should  be  miserable.  He  knew  Stephen 
too  well  to  believe  that  any  amount  of  cloud  would  keep 
him  from  attempting  the  ascent ;  and  he  knew  himself  too 
well  to  believe  that  he  would  brave  the  ridicule  and  obvi 
ous  interpretation,  should  he  himself  remain  at  the  inn.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  for  a  moment  that  Mr.  Marshall 
would  allow  Pauline  and  Billy  to  venture  up  the  moun 
tain  on  such  a  day,  and  especially  as  they  had  both  been 
on  the  top  twice  during  the  past  week.  But  Robert  did  not 
know  the  temper  of  the  Marshall  family,  or  the  way  that 
perfect  health  makes  light  of  obstacles.  Pauline  came  to 
breakfast  evidently  equipped  for  the  enterprise,  and  wholly 
free  from  any  doubts  in  regard  to  her  day's  plan.  Even 

77 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Mr.  Marshall  had  on  knickerbockers.   Billy  was  always  in 
walking  attire. 

Robert  felt  a  thrill  of  admiration,  not  only  for  Pauline, 
but  for  the  whole  family.  In  his  old  world  at  Bolton,  both 
the  men  and  the  women,  but  especially  the  women,  were 
easily  deterred  from  carrying  out  their  plans  by  even 
trivial  obstacles.  It  had  always  been  a  heart-rending  mat 
ter  to  get  his  aunt  off  to  Boston.  She  usually  planned  to 
go  on  a  Monday,  —  that  being  bargain  day  at  the  depart 
ment  stores.  But  the  household  were  happy  indeed  if  they 
got  her  off  by  Wednesday  or  Thursday.  Taking  his  cue 
from  the  people  around  him,  Robert  had  always  allowed 
circumstances  to  triumph  over  the  human  will.  None  of 
his  own  plans  were  made  with  any  degree  of  assurance. 
There  was  always  a  large  peradventure  in  them,  due  in 
part  to  the  habit  of  his  class,  and  in  part  to  his  own  lack 
of  robust  health.  Robert  felt  the  difference  between  him 
self  and  the  Marshalls,  just  as  he  had  felt  the  difference 
between  himself  and  Alicia.  But  as  yet  it  had  not  occurred 
to  him  that  he  could  close  the  gap.  The  present  result  was 
a  sense  of  confusion  and  a  distinct  feeling  of  inferiority. 
It  was  perhaps  the  secret  of  Robert's  great  admiration  for 
Stephen  that  Stephen  belonged  to  this  dominant  class,  and 
allowed  circumstances  to  interfere  with  his  plans  only  when 
he  was  absolutely  forced  to  do  so.  When  this  happened, 
Stephen  never  complained.  He  accepted  the  inevitable 
with  much  better  grace  than  Robert  did.  Stephen  exercised 
his  will  when  there  was  a  chance  for  success ;  Robert  ex 
ercised  his  when  there  was  no  chance.  This  one  difference 
in  quality  meant  a  tremendous  difference  in  the  daily  work 
ing  out  of  their  characters.  Stephen's  fondness  for  Robert 

78 


IN  THE   CLOUDS 


was  partly  due  to  Robert's  rare  innocence  and  lovableness, 
but  partly  also  to  his  weakness.  Stephen's  instinct  as  a 
lawyer  was  the  higher  one  of  protecting  and  defending. 
His  single-minded  devotion  to  the  law  was  due  in  large 
measure  to  his  apprehension  of  law  as  an  instrument  of 
right.  Earlier  in  the  centuries  Stephen  would  have  been  a 
crusader  or  a  knight-errant.  Fallen  upon  the  present,  he 
was  a  lawyer.  Without  analyzing  his  feeling,  he  was  con 
scious  all  the  time  of  a  desire  to  protect  Robert,  — to  shield 
him.  What  he  wanted  to  protect  and  shield  him  against, 
he  never  got  so  far  as  to  say.  Had  he  done  so,  he  would 
perhaps  have  been  the  first  to  recognize  its  hopelessness, 
for  in  effect  what  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  protect  Robert 
from  his  own  past,  to  shield  him  from  his  heredity,  and 
that  the  gods  themselves  could  hardly  have  done. 

But  Robert's  frame  of  mind  as  he  came  down  to  break 
fast  at  Gorphwysfa  Inn  was  far  from  analytic.  When  he 
found  Pauline  dressed  for  the  expedition,  his  immediate 
sense  was  one  of  relief.  This  soon  melted  into  a  lively  sense 
of  pleasure.  Pauline  seemed  charged  with  health  and  good 
spirits,  and  radiated  them  in  all  directions  with  the  utmost 
unconsciousness  and  impartiality.  If  Robert  and  Billy  got 
more  than  their  share,  it  was  due  solely  to  their  nearness 
to  the  source,  and  to  the  operation  of  what  Stephen  hu 
morously  called  the  law  of  inverse  squares.  The  gentleman 
who  had  chafed  under  Donald's  remarks  the  preceding 
evening  did  not  appear  at  the  breakfast-table.  Donald  was 
amiability  itself.  He  liked  gray  days.  The  prospect  of  five 
or  six  hours'  walk  in  the  clouds  filled  him  with  elation. 
This  morning  he  was  wholly  the  poet,  and  would  not  have 
quarreled  with  any  number  of  British  Philistines. 

79 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


The  party  got  started  about  ten.  Billy  took  complete 
possession  of  Donald.  But  it  was  easy  to  metamorphose 
Billy  into  a  sprite  of  the  mist  and  fit  him  into  the  mood. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  magic  to  make  Billy  serve 
as  a  cloud  angel,  for  the  freckled,  snub-nosed  little  face, 
with  its  dancing,  unquenchable  eyes,  was  far  too  mischiev 
ous  for  any  angelic  role,  and  made  him  a  much  better  model 
for  imp  or  sprite.  Billy  circled  around  the  party,  never 
completely  lost  in  the  mist,  but  putting  on  various  grades 
of  unreality  as  the  indistinctness  varied.  But  the  centre 
of  his  orbit  remained  Donald.  Mr.  Marshall  went  with 
them  on  the  lower  trail  as  far  as  the  old  copper  works,  and 
along  the  desolate  causeway  that  skirts  the  tarn.  When 
the  trail  turned  to  the  right,  and  shot  up  with  amazing 
perpendicularity  into  the  heart  of  the  clouds,  Mr.  Marshall 
turned  back.  Occupied  as  he  was  with  his  own  unaccus 
tomed  thoughts  and  feelings,  Robert  still  had  room  for 
surprise  at  Mr.  Marshall's  matter-of-fact  leave-taking. 
Robert  had  never  known  a  father  who  would  have  allowed 
his  children  to  go  on  such  an  expedition  in  such  weather, 
much  less  have  seen  them  off  with  this  delightful  absence  of 
precautions.  Mr.  Marshall  burdened  them  with  no  warn 
ings  against  either  precipices  or  colds.  He  took  the  suc 
cess  of  the  expedition  as  a  foregone  conclusion,  and  told 
them  good-by  with  the  same  light-heartedness  that  he  would 
have  wished  them  good-night.  All  he  said  was,  "Keep 
your  head,  Pauline.  Look  after  Billy." 

The  young  people  stood  for  a  minute  watching  the 
retreating  figure ;  but  it  was  soon  lost  in  the  mist.  They 
themselves  had  climbed  but  a  few  feet,  but  they  seemed 
hanging  in  mid-air,  against  the  sides  of  almost  perpen- 

80 


IN  THE   CLOUDS 


dicular  rock.  Billy  and  Donald  constituted  an  advance 
party,  whose  company  was  too  intermittent  to  count  for 
much.  This  reduced  the  party  of  major  interest  to  three, 
Pauline,  Robert,  and  Stephen.  The  girl  was  by  all  odds 
the  best  mountaineer  of  the  three.  Robert  and  Stephen 
had  started  out  with  the  amiable  intention  of  being  very 
helpful  to  Pauline,  and  of  showing  her  their  high  appre 
ciation  of  the  honor  she  had  done  them  in  intrusting  her 
self  to  their  care.  It  soon  became  evident,  however,  that 
Pauline  needed  no  such  help.  Far  from  leaning  on  any  one, 
she  had  wisely  intrusted  herself  to  her  own  superb  care. 

Both  men  realized  at  the  same  moment  the  futility  of 
their  good  intentions,  and  laughed  aloud.  Pauline  laughed 
too,  for  even  without  knowing  what  had  gone  before,  the 
scene  was  amusing  in  itself.  Pauline  stood  some  distance 
above  them,  unfatigued  and  unpalpitating,  waiting  for  her 
two  knights  to  catch  their  breath  and  come  up  to  her. 
Stephen's  tendency  to  weight  made  rapid  climbing  quite 
out  of  the  question,  and  even  moderate  climbing  attended 
with  some  puffing  and  blowing.  Robert  was  all  right  as 
to  wind,  but  Doane  Street  had  given  little  exercise  to  the 
muscles  used  in  mountain  climbing.  Though  he  would  not 
have  confessed  it  for  worlds,  he  had  continued  and  very 
serious  doubts  as  to  whether  he  should  ever  be  able  to 
reach  the  top.  Pauline  made  no  comment.  It  was  not  so 
much  any  conscious  reasoning  as  an  instinct  of  courtesy 
that  made  her  slacken  her  pace,  and  quite  unostentatiously 
ignore  their  disabilities.  She  excused  her  own  superior 
facility  by  explaining  that  she  and  Billy  had  practically 
spent  the  whole  summer  climbing  among  the  Scotch  moun 
tains.  Even  with  these  concessions,  it  was  a  very  hard 

81 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


climb  for  both  men.  In  spite  of  their  good  company,  they 
were  audibly  relieved  when  their  own  precipitous  trail 
joined  the  broader  path  from  Llanberis  village,  and  they 
could  travel  at  a  less  palpitating  grade  along  the  sharp 
ridge  that  led  to  the  summit.  They  rounded  the  tiny  rail 
way  shed  and  the  half  frightened  looking  little  hotel,  and 
came  out  on  the  rocky  platform  which  constitutes  the 
highest  point  in  England  and  Wales. 

Billy  and  Donald  were  already  in  possession,  Billy  flat 
on  his  stomach,  peering  over  the  edge  into  the  shimmering 
abyss,  Donald  hugging  his  knees  and  rocking  to  and  fro 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  Pauline  quickly  dropped  along 
side  of  Billy,  settling  herself  in  comfortable  tailor  fashion, 
her  hands  in  her  lap.  Robert  and  Stephen  disposed  of 
themselves  much  more  slowly  and  less  gracefully.  Looking 
at  the  group,  one  would  have  said  that  there  were  three 
children  of  nature  and  two  outsiders. 

The  top  of  Snowdon  was  in  the  sunlight,  but  all  around 
them  stretched  an  almost  unbroken  mass  of  white  cloud, 
with  here  and  there  the  black  summit  of  some  ambitious 
peak  emerging  like  a  tiny  island.  The  billows  of  this  vast 
cloud  ocean  were  more  enormous  and  more  fantastic  than 
any  into  which  even  tropical  cyclone  had  ever  been  able 
to  lash  the  heavier  sea.  These  great  sun-flecked  biUows 
surged  about  them  with  an  elemental  force  that  threat 
ened  either  to  annihilate  them,  or  to  turn  them  into  gods. 
Donald  was  visibly  exultant,  Billy  curious,  Pauline  and 
Stephen  quiescent,  and  Robert  alternately  elated  and 
overawed. 

For  a  time  none  of  them  spoke,  Pauline,  Donald,  and 
Billy  because  it  did  not  occur  to  them;  Stephen  and 

82 


IN  THE   CLOUDS 


Robert  because  they  felt  that  any  comment  would  be  an 
interruption. 

Stephen  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  By  Jove,  little  Pen, 
this  is  mighty  fine,  is  n't  it  ?  I  don't  know  what 's  under 
all  this  whipped  cream,  and  I  don't  much  care.  It 's  good 
fun  just  as  it  is." 

"  All  the  same,"  piped  up  Billy,  "  I  wish  it  would  dry 
up  and  blow  away,  for  it's  nicer  when  you  see  over  to 
Ireland!" 

"  Peace,  earth-born  spirit,"  commanded  Donald,  partly 
in  earnest  and  partly  in  fun ;  "  why  wish  for  earth  when 
you  already  have  Heaven  ?  There  's  only  one  thing  that 
could  beat  this,  and  that  would  be  a  jolly  big  storm,  thun 
der  and  lightning,  wind  blowing  great  guns,  drenching 
rain,  rocks  aquiver,  all  nature  cowed  and  trembling,  and 
only  man  open-eyed  and  unafraid! " 

Billy  edged  up  a  little  closer  to  his  strange  friend.  He 
did  not  quite  understand  this  heroic  mood,  but  he  liked 
Donald  the  better  for  it. 

Pauline  had  listened,  and  seemed  to  be  weighing  the 
situation.  She  glanced  around  the  complete  sweep  of  the 
horizon  and  said  presently,  "  This  is  all  you  will  get  to 
day  —  just  clouds.  It 's  all  right  for  Billy  and  me,  for  we 
had  the  view  when  we  were  here  before.  I  am  sorry  for 
you,  though.  I  do  wish  you  could  see  both.  It 's  not  much 
to  see  Ireland,  for  it 's  too  far  off,  just  a  faint  blue  line 
against  the  sky.  But  the  near  view  is  worth  while, — 
mountains,  valleys,  coast,  —  you  could  almost  fancy  you 
were  up  in  a  balloon." 

Robert  was  torn  between  conflicting  emotions.  He 
would  have  been  perfectly  happy  in  any  event,  for  he 

83 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


cared  more  for  the  foreground  than  for  any  possible  scen 
ery  that  might  lie  beyond.  But  the  Pendexter  thrift  made 
him  feel  that  after  coming  so  far  and  climbing  so  high,  he 
ought  to  get  more  than  just  clouds.  At  Bolton  the  expe 
dition  would  be  regarded  as  a  failure. 

Meanwhile  the  clouds  took  on  a  grayish  tinge.  The 
mountain-climbers  began  to  be  conscious  that  instead  of 
looking  at  the  clouds,  they  were  looking  through  them. 
The  sun  paled  and  went  out  like  a  snuffed  candle.  They 
found  themselves  sitting  on  dull  gray  rocks  in  a  moist 
gray  mist,  and  realized  that  it  was  time  to  go  home. 

Billy  announced  that  he  meant  to  go  very  fast,  for  he 
was  devoured  with  hunger.  Robert  was  rather  surprised 
that  any  one  should  be  hungry  at  such  a  time,  and  still 
more  surprised  when  Pauline  agreed  with  Billy.  But  the 
fact  did  not  strike  him  as  ominous. 

Whatever  Pauline  said  seemed  wonderful  to  Robert, 
but  equally  wonderful  were  her  unembarrassed  silences. 
Robert  was  not  yet  accustomed  to  this  easier  and  more 
natural  world  in  which  people  talked  or  refrained  from 
talking  without  any  feeling  of  constraint.  In  his  own 
world  it  was  not  considered  manners  to  allow  the  flow  of 
conversation  a  moment's  rest.  Talk  was  treated  like  a 
ball,  which  must  be  kept  forever  tossing  from  one  to  an 
other.  Other  things  being  equal,  the  most  vigorous  player 
was  counted  the  greatest  social  success.  Robert  was  too 
shy  always  to  live  up  to  this  exacting  theory,  but  at  least 
he  knew  his  duty.  Whenever  a  conversational  breach 
occurred,  he  was  to  jump  into  the  breach. 

To  take  people  simply,  to  be  just  one's  natural,  serene 
self  in  company,  or  at  home,  or  quite  alone,  was  a  social 

84 


IN  THE  CLOUDS 


conception  too  little  strenuous  to  satisfy  the  Pendexter 
conscience.  As  a  result,  social  intercourse,  instead  of 
being  a  welcome  element  in  daily  life,  like  walking  or  eat 
ing  or  reading,  was  so  pronounced  a  strain  that  even  the 
strongest  members  of  the  family  could  not  sustain  it  for 
any  great  length  of  time.  Whatever  the  occasion,  the 
Pendexters  were  always  in  dress  uniform  and  on  parade. 

But  here  was  a  distinctly  new  way  of  handling  the  mat 
ter.  Pauline  was  never  in  dress  uniform  and  never  on 
parade.  She  would  have  worn  exactly  what  she  had  on, 
and  done  exactly  what  she  was  doing,  and  said  practically 
exactly  what  she  was  saying,  had  our  three  young  friends 
been  at  the  Antipodes,  and  Billy  her  only  companion. 
Stephen  regarded  this  simplicity  of  Pauline's  as  merely 
natural  breeding,  but  was  too  much  accustomed  to  it  to 
wonder,  and  much  too  well  informed  to  regard  it  as  unique 
and  individual.  To  Eobert,  however,  Pauline  was  not  a 
type.  She  was  a  wonderful  individual,  a  woman  whose 
unique  quality  entitled  her  to  worship.  Consequently 
Robert  worshiped,  and  with  an  intensity  of  devotion  of 
which  in  Doane  Street  or  Pinckney  Street  he  would  never 
have  believed  himself  capable. 

The  mist  and  darkness  deepened  as  the  descent  pro 
gressed.  It  became  difficult  to  follow  the  trail,  especially 
when  they  struck  off  to  the  left  and  skirted  the  desolate 
tarn,  on  the  high  ridge  separating  it  from  the  Pass.  Paul 
ine  showed  no  alarm,  not  even  when  they  got  off  the  trail 
altogether  and  wasted  considerable  time  in  finding  it  again. 
The  only  sign  she  gave  of  sensing  any  possible  danger  was 
in  telling  Billy  to  keep  within  sight.  Robert's  regard  for 
the  small  boy  went  up  considerably  when  he  observed  that 

85 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


Billy  did  what  he  was  told  without  any  protest  or  grum 
bling. 

To  add  to  their  difficulty,  the  trail  itself  grew  indistinct. 
Sometimes  it  quite  lost  itself  in  rocky  wastes  or  still  more 
perplexing  bits  of  pasture.  It  was  growing  perceptibly 
darker.  Robert  was  not  in  the  least  worried.  Pauline 
and  his  friends  were  still  in  sight,  and  whatever  fate  befell 
one  would  probably  befall  all.  In  reality  he  felt  more 
sorry  for  Mr.  Marshall  than  he  did  for  any  one  of  them 
selves.  He  knew  precisely  in  what  a  fever  of  anxiety  he 
should  be  himself,  if  he  were  at  the  inn  and  the  others,  or 
even  just  Stephen  and  Donald,  out  on  the  mountain. 

Finally  the  party  lost  the  trail  altogether,  and  it  became 
a  mere  waste  of  time  looking  for  it.  They  were  in  the 
midst  of  a  stretch  of  rocky  pasture,  which  for  the  moment 
constituted  the  whole  of  their  visible  world.  Stephen  sug 
gested  a  council  of  war.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  resolved 
itself  into  a  discussion  of  the  situation  by  Pauline  and 
Billy,  while  the  others  listened.  It  was  shortly  agreed  that 
Pauline  should  lead,  while  Billy,  as  independent  critic, 
should  sing  out  whenever  he  thought  that  she  was  going 
wrong.  Pauline's  confidence  communicated  itself  to  all  the 
rest,  and  the  party  was  soon  moving  down  the  mountain 
with  more  speed  and  assurance  than  when  on  the  trail 
itself.  Pauline's  method  was  very  simple.  It  consisted  in 
keeping  on  the  highest  part  of  the  ridge,  and  whenever  it 
forked,  taking  the  left-hand  spur  leading  down  towards 
the  Pass.  This  order  of  march  once  established,  no  fur 
ther  doubts  were  expressed,  or  even  felt,  and  the  talk  went 
on  much  as  before. 

Billy  was  the  first  to  catch  sight  of  a  grayish  white 

86 


IN  THE   CLOUDS 


thread  in  the  mist  below  them,  and  to  announce  it  as  the 
road  leading  from  Llanberis  Village  to  the  summit  of  the 
Pass.  It  still  took  some  pretty  rough  climbing  to  get  to 
it,  for  the  gray  mist  was  closing  down  upon  them  more 
and  more  completely,  and  they  had  literally  to  feel  their 
way.  They  came  out  rather  lower  down  than  Pauline  an 
ticipated,  and  had  to  climb  up  the  Pass  something  over 
half  a  mile  before  they  reached  the  inn.  But  by  con 
trast,  walking  on  the  smooth  white  road  was  so  very  easy 
that  the  rest  of  the  journey  seemed  a  veritable  luxury. 

At  the  inn  the  lights  were  already  lighted,  and,  glimmer 
ing  through  the  mist,  expressed  a  hearty  welcome.  Rob 
ert  was  thoroughly  tired,  and  he  rather  fancied  that  Ste 
phen  and  Donald  felt  the  same ;  but  Pauline  and  Billy 
seemed  as  fresh  as  when  they  started  out.  As  they  came 
into  the  hall,  Billy  announced  that  he  meant  to  eat  a  tre 
mendous  dinner.  A  fire  of  sea  coals  blazed  on  the  hearth. 
The  coppers  gleamed  in  the  firelight.  A  double  row  of 
boots  and  shoes  lumbered  up  one  side  of  the  room.  It  was 
much  the  same  cheery  scene  that  our  three  young  friends 
had  entered  upon  the  night  before,  but  so  much  had  hap 
pened  in  the  interval  that  it  seemed,  to  one  of  them  at 
least,  that  a  week  or  a  month  had  passed. 

Pauline  and  the  three  friends  dropped  into  chairs  before 
the  fire,  while  Billy  ran  off  to  tell  Mr.  Marshall  that  they 
had  returned.  Robert  fully  expected  Billy  to  bring  them 
word  that  Mr.  Marshall  was  out  hunting  them  with  men 
and  lanterns  and  brandy  flasks,  but  to  his  surprise,  father 
and  son  soon  joined  them,  hand  in  hand.  Mr.  Marshall 
expressed  no  anxiety  over  their  late  returning,  and  did  not 
chide  them  for  stopping  so  long  at  the  top.  The  only  sign 

87 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


he  gave  was  in  stooping  over  and  kissing  Pauline,  and  in 
keeping  hold  of  Billy's  hand. 

Kobert  could  not  help  contrasting  this  welcome  with  the 
one  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  would  have  proffered 
under  similar  circumstances.  He  could  easily  fancy  that 
her  mixed  upbraidings  for  their  carelessness  and  her  au 
dible  self-pity  for  her  own  anxiety  would  have  made  the 
time  until  dinner  tolerably  uncomfortable.  He  recalled 
a  cold,  wintry  afternoon  when  he  and  his  cousins  had  been 
up  at  Bare  Hill  Pond  skating,  and  had  got  home  a  little 
later  than  they  expected.  Miss  Pendexter,  as  she  herself 
expressed  it,  was  in  a  state.  She  was  in  layers,  alter 
nately  worried  and  cross:  worried  lest  some  harm  had 
really  befallen  them,  and  cross  because  they  had  given  her 
cause  for  worriment.  Robert  remembered  especially  that 
Miss  Pendexter  had  been  far  more  put  out  with  him  than 
with  his  cousins.  He  thought,  at  the  time,  that  this  was 
because  she  regarded  him  as  the  leader  of  the  expedition 
and  more  responsible  than  the  girls.  She  had  made  it 
seem  light-minded  enough  in  them,  but  almost  inexcusable 
in  him.  It  flashed  over  Robert,  as  he  sat  there  in  the 
cheerful  firelight  at  Gorphwysfa,  that  perhaps  the  greater 
anger  measured  the  greater  affection,  and  that  perhaps  the 
willing  of  the  major  part  of  her  fortune  to  him  had,  after 
all,  been  a  matter  of  genuine  sentiment,  and  not  mere 
caprice. 

Robert  had  seldom  known  what  it  was  to  be  thoroughly 
and  wholesomely  tired  out  physically.  He  had  often  been 
weary  unto  death  over  figures  and  accounts  recording  op 
erations  in  the  spice  trade, — too  weary  to  eat  or  sleep.  But 
to  be  tired  out  physically  was  almost  a  new  experience. 

88 


IN  THE   CLOUDS 


As  he  sat  there  in  a  comfortable  chair  before  the  fire,  it 
struck  him  as  the  most  delightful  sensation  in  the  world, 
just  to  be  tired  bodily  and  to  be  resting.  His  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  particularly  alert,  and  to  be  skipping  about 
with  extraordinary  nimbleness. 

Eobert  should,  by  all  counts,  have  been  listening,  for 
Pauline  was  giving  her  father  a  lively  account  of  the  day's 
happenings.  But  he  was  not  listening.  He  was  conscious 
of  pleasure  in  the  sound  of  her  voice,  but  he  was  not  tak 
ing  in  what  she  was  saying.  The  coal-fire  and  the  hearth 
at  Gorphwysfa  did  not  in  any  way  resemble  the  wood-fire 
and  the  brick  hearth  in  his  aunt's  prim  sitting-room  at 
Bolton,  but  almost  perversely  the  one  evoked  a  picture  of 
the  other.  Against  the  altogether  foreign  background  of 
Pauline's  voice  flitted  the  shadowy  figure  of  his  aunt  and 
the  still  substantial  figures  of  his  three  cousins.  Robert 
wondered,  with  a  mixture  of  amusement  and  sobriety, 
whether,  given  anything  of  a  chance,  the  Bolton  cousins 
could  ever  have  become  girls  somewhat  more  like  Pauline. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  they  could  ever  have  been 
her  equal,  —  Pauline  was  unique,  —  but  the  question  was 
whether,  if  they  had  really  had  a  chance,  they  might  have 
come  say  within  speaking  distance  of  her.  It  brought  a 
new  tenderness  into  his  recollection  of  the  cousins.  Then 
the  thought  came  to  Robert  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  inherited  his  aunt's  fortune,  whether  these  inexperi 
enced,  badly  dressed  little  cousins  had  not  just  as  much 
right  to  their  aunt's  property  as  he,  or  even  more  right. 
They  had  lived  with  her,  cared  for  her,  entertained  her, 
above  all,  had  put  up  with  her  day  after  day,  while  he, 
the  heir-apparent,  as  it  turned  out,  had  given  her  only  an 

89 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


occasional  holiday,  and  rather  grudgingly  at  that.  And 
now  he  had  the  bulk  of  his  aunt's  fortune,  something  over 
six  thousand  a  year,  while  the  girls  had  the  ancient  square 
house  at  Bolton,  the  rocky  acres,  and  about  a  thousand 
a  year  apiece.  Robert  had  accepted  this  unequal  favor  of 
fortune  quite  without  question.  To-night  he  was  asking 
himself  whether  it  were  just.  The  thought  brought  him 
up  with  such  a  start  that  involuntarily  he  leaned  forward 
in  his  chair.  Pauline  took  it  that  he  wanted  to  add  a 
touch  to  her  own  narrative,  and  paused  expectantly,  but 
Robert  had  nothing  to  say. 

The  three  friends  had  meant  to  walk  on  to  Bettws-y- 
Coed  that  night,  and  so  reach  Chester  early  in  the  morn 
ing.  Such  a  plan  was  now  impossible.  It  would  have  been 
thrown  over  anyway  on  the  chance  that  the  Marshalls 
might  join  them  if  they  waited  until  Monday  morning. 
The  mere  possibility  made  Robert  happy.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  fate  had  been  astonishingly  kind.  His  sense  of 
undeserved  good  fortune  deepened  immeasurably  when  it 
turned  out  at  dinner  that  the  Marshalls  had  definitely 
decided  to  join  them  not  only  for  the  morrow's  walk,  but 
also  for  the  Lake  trip.  Billy  had  been  promised  a  week 
on  Windermere  before  being  assigned  for  the  winter  to 
the  advanced  institution  of  learning  at  Abbotsholme. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  OPEN  ROAD 

MONDAY  proved  to  be  an  ideal  day.  Every  vestige  of 
cloud  had  disappeared.  The  sun  shone  from  a  warm  blue 
sky  upon  an  earth  that  seemed,  out  of  sheer  gratitude,  to 
be  smiling  back.  The  white  walls  of  Gorphwysfa  were 
glistening  in  the  strong  light.  The  licensed  victualer  had 
stuck  a  flower  in  her  hair.  The  maids  had  on  particularly 
spotless  caps  and  aprons.  It  was  still  only  the  third  week 
in  September,  and  the  scant  shrubbery  was  not  yet  touched 
by  frost.  About  the  world  at  large  there  was  an  air  of 
irrepressible  cheer. 

Robert  came  out  a  little  while  before  the  others,  his 
heart  fairly  singing  with  the  joy  of  life.  Billy  was  already 
in  possession  of  the  bench  outside  the  door.  He  was 
whistling,  and  swinging  his  legs  in  unison  with  the  tune. 
He  looked  up,  hoping  that  it  was  Donald,  but  the  morning 
was  too  good,  and  his  own  mood  too  expansive,  to  allow 
any  disappointment  when  he  saw  that  it  was  only  Robert. 

44  Good-morning,  Mr.  Pendexter,"  he  called  out.  "  I  say, 
is  n't  this  a  jolly  morning  for  our  walk  ?  Don't  you  wish 
you  were  up  on  top  of  Snowdon  this  very  minute  ?  I  do. 
Want  a  seat  ?  "  Billy  threw  out  any  number  of  questions, 
but  these  were  to  be  taken  as  mere  expressions  of  opinion, 
and  called  for  no  reply  unless,  by  special  emphasis  or 
otherwise,  a  specific  answer  was  demanded. 

Robert  sat  down  on  the  bench  alongside  of  Billy.  "A 
perfect  morning,"  he  replied.  "  But  I  'd  rather  be  here 

91 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


than  on  Snowdon.  I  feel  a  growing  interest  in  my  break 
fast." 

"  It 's  bang-up  that  you  and  Mr.  Donald  and  Mr.  Morse 
are  going  with  us.  Pauline  '11  be  pleased,  too.  She  likes 
Americans  better  than  Britishers.  She  says  so." 

"I'm  glad  she  does,"  Robert  answered,  feeling  that  he 
ought  to  head  Billy  off  in  some  way,  but  not  quite  knowing 
how  to  do  it. 

"  She  'd  be  an  awful  duffer,  you  know,  if  she  did  n't," 
continued  Billy,  imperturbably,  looking  at  the  question 
wholly  from  Pauline's  point  of  view.  "I  guess  I  just 
would  n't  speak  to  her  if  she  went  and  married  a  Britisher. 
There  was  a  man  up  in  Edinburgh  —  " 

"  Billy,"  said  Robert,  resolutely,  "  how  are  you  going 
to  carry  your  luggage  to  Bettws-y-Coed  ?  " 

Billy  was  easily  diverted,  and  took  up  the  less  alluring 
topic  of  conversation  with  equal  enthusiasm.  "  Oh,  dad  's 
going  to  have  a  cart  to  carry  the  things.  It  '11  go  'long 
with  us  all  the  way." 

"  That 's  good,"  said  Robert.  "  Then  your  sister  can 
ride  too,  if  she  gets  tired." 

"  Pauline  get  tired  !  "  exclaimed  Billy,  contemptuously. 
"You  don't  know  Pauline.  Pauline  never  gets  tired. 
Why,  Pauline  can  outwalk  dad ;  she  can  even  outwalk 
me,  and  I  'm  a  boy.  If  anybody  gets  played  out  and  has 
to  ride,  it  '11  be  dad." 

"  Or  Billy  ?  "  suggested  Robert,  laughing. 

"  I  shan't  ride,"  said  Billy,  stoutly  ;  and  then  added,  as 
an  afterthought,  "  Not  unless  Mr.  Donald  does." 

"  Then  I  think  you'll  probably  not  ride." 

A  few  moments  later,  Donald  came  out  with  Stephen, 

92 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


and  was  immediately  appealed  to  as  to  whether  he  meant 
to  ride  any  of  the  distance  to  The  Royal  Oak.  As  he  de 
clared  that  he  meant  to  walk  every  inch  of  the  way,  Billy 
was  equally  strenuous  in  thinking  that  even  on  an  unex 
citing  wagon-road,  walking  was  much  ahead  of  riding.  He 
had  never  been  quite  sure  of  it  before.  Pauline  and  Mr. 
Marshall  now  appeared,  and  they  all  went  in  to  breakfast 
together. 

By  nine  they  were  on  the  road,  the  six  walkers  ahead, 
and  the  high  cart  piled  full  of  luggage  crawling  after 
them.  As  the  road  was  broad,  and  few  other  travelers 
astir,  our  friends  took  up  no  particular  order  of  march. 
Billy,  of  course,  stuck  pretty  close  to  Donald,  but  this 
merely  meant  that  Donald  was  the  centre  of  Billy's  gyra 
tions.  Billy  was  almost  the  incarnation  of  perpetual  mo 
tion.  On  such  a  walk  as  this,  he  covered  at  least  twice 
the  distance  made  by  the  others. 

Down  the  Pass  to  Pen-y-Gweyd,  the  party  moved  in  a 
group,  too  much  taken  up  with  the  beauty  of  the  morning 
and  the  exhilaration  of  rapid  movement  to  put  together 
any  very  connected  conversation.  As  the  road  approached 
Capel  Curig  and  lost  its  distinctively  mountain  charac 
ter,  nature  grew  less  insistent,  and  human  nature  came 
more  into  evidence.  Stephen  and  Mr.  Marshall  fell  into 
a  discussion  of  American  politics  and  finance ;  while 
Pauline  —  Donald  on  one  side  and  Robert  on  the  other 
—  became  the  centre  of  rambling  talk  that  swept  from 
one  end  of  the  earth  to  the  other.  When  they  reached 
that  well-known  point  in  the  road  where  you  get  the 
famous  view  of  Snowdon,  a  delicious  breeze  sprang  up, 
and  as  they  turned  to  look  at  the  mountain,  swept  through 

93 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


their  lungs  like  a  current  of  new  life.  Donald  began 
repeating  Whitman's  "  Song  of  the  Koad."  It  was  pleas 
ant  to  hear  him,  for  he  seemed  not  to  be  quoting  or 
reciting,  but  merely  talking  in  a  rude  verse,  whose  un- 
cramped  measure  fitted  in  well  with  the  sweep  of  their 
surroundings.  "  I  like  it  all,"  said  Donald,  when  he  had 
finished.  "  Even  the  jolty  parts.  I  'm  sorry  we  live  so 
much  indoors.  I  think  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with  us 
now.  We  do  dull,  stupid  things  just  to  make  money, 
when  we  'd  much  better  be  making  verses.  We  get  ner 
vous  and  blue  for  mere  lack  of  fresh  air,  and  end  by 
thinking  that  the  world  's  going  to  the  bow-wows,  when 
only  we  ourselves  are !  Sometimes  I  think  I  '11  be  a 
tramp,  or  a  gypsy,  or  a  cow-boy,  or  a  cab-driver,  or  even 
a  policeman,  for  they  are  our  only  philosophers." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  Berlin  for,  then,  —  a  place 
where  the  sun  hardly  ever  shines  in  winter,  and  the  lamps 
are  lighted  at  three  o'clock  ?  "  demanded  Pauline.  "  You  'd 
much  better  be  going  to  Italy  or  Egypt  or  India,  where 
you  could  live  outdoors  all  the  time." 

"  That 's  just  it,"  answered  Donald,  vigorously.  "  It 's 
the  perversity  of  fate,  just  a  horrid  trick,  the  kind  that  Des 
tiny  is  always  playing  us,  unless  we  stand  out  against  her." 

"  Why  don't  you  stand  out  against  her,  then  ?  "  asked 
Pauline.  "  It 's  silly  to  do  things  you  don't  want  to. 
What  are  you  going  to  Berlin  for,  if  you  don't  like  the 
sort  of  life  that  Berlin  stands  for  ?  As  I  remember  Ber 
lin,  it 's  a  better  place  to  study  all  sorts  of  dry  things 
than  it  is  to  write  poetry  in." 

"  It 's  a  bum  place,"  put  in  Billy,  whose  erratic  orbit 
brought  him  for  a  moment  within  hearing  of  the  word. 

94 


THE   OPEN   KOAD 


"  A  knock-down  question  that,  —  why  I  am  going  to 
Berlin,"  answered  Donald.  "  I  guess  it 's  just  because  I  'm 
a  miserable  coward !  " 

Donald  spoke  so  earnestly  that  both  Pauline  and  Robert 
looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Now  you're  talking  in  riddles,"  Pauline  said.  "I 
never  do  it  myself,  but  I  always  thought  it  must  be 
awfully  brave  to  want  to  do  one  thing  and  deliberately 
go  and  do  something  else.  I  'd  really  like  to  know  why 
you  're  a  miserable  coward,  would  n't  you,  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter?" 

Robert  said  that  he  would. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  reiterated  Donald.  "  I  'm  just  a  miser 
able  coward,  — like  most  other  men.  I  like  to  live  outdoors 
and  moon  around  and  write  verses.  And  instead  of  that, 
I  teach  German  in  a  swell  preparatory  school  —  the  lan 
guage  and  literature,  if  you  please  —  to  a  parcel  of  chaps 
who  don't  care  a  rap  about  either.  And  I  've  come  abroad 
to  study,  not  for  the  joy  of  it,  mind  you,  but  mainly  that 
the  headmaster  can  announce  to  his  mammas  and  papas 
that  I  'm  straight  from  headquarters,  the  genuine  article, 
and  can  give  their  young  hopefuls  the  simon-pure  Aus- 
sprache." 

Donald  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  an  unmistakable 
touch  of  bitterness  in  his  words.  Robert  was  at  once  all 
sympathy,  but  Pauline  took  the  common-sense  point  of 
view.  "  Well,  it 's  worth  while  to  teach  boys  German, 
isn't  it?"  she  asked.  "It's  a  good  thing  for  them  to 
know.  And  if  you  pretend  to  do  it  at  all,  you  ought  to 
do  it  well,  and  give  them  the  right  accent.  I  should  just 
hate  a  teacher  who  taught  me  things  that  were  n't  so. 

95 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Where 's  the  cowardice  in  preparing  to  do  your  work 
well  ?  I  really  don't  see  what  you  're  driving  at." 

"  Dear  lady,"  said  Donald,  more  gently  and  reasonably, 
"  if  I  loved  to  teach,  it  would  be  different.  But  I  don't. 
I  hate  it !  And  yet  I  go  on  doing  it.  That 's  why  I  'm  a 
coward !  " 

"  I  must  be  very  stupid,"  Pauline  replied,  laughing  in 
her  frank,  boyish  way;  "but  you  have  n't  told  us  yet  just 
why  you  are  so  reprehensible.  Must  poets  always  be 
obscure  ?  If  you  don't  like  to  teach  and  still  go  on  doing 
it,  I  think  you  're  awfully  foolish,  but  that 's  all  I  make 
out  of  it.  If  you  do  it  well,  thoroughly  well,  you  know, 
in  spite  of  your  dislike,  it  seems  to  me,  on  the  whole, 
rather  heroic.  Do  you  guess  his  riddle,  Mr.  Pendexter  ?  " 

Robert  answered  that  he  did  n't,  and  that  he  was  the 
more  at  sea,  the  more  Donald  talked.  Robert  rather  liked 
to  have  Pauline  appeal  to  him  in  this  way. 

"  I  'm  much  encouraged,  mes  amis"  cried  Donald, 
gayly.  "  I  see  that  I  am  growing  very  cultivated.  The 
more  I  say,  the  less  I  'm  understood.  It 's  a  sure  sign  of 
culture.  The  dear  headmaster  would  raise  my  salary  at 
once  if  he  could  only  hear  you  little  ones  talk." 

Pauline  once  more  turned  to  Robert.  "  It 's  quite  hope 
less,  Mr.  Pendexter.  I've  asked  Mr.  Fergusson  three 
separate  and  distinct  times  why  he  is  a  coward,  —  a  miser 
able  coward,  remember,  —  and  he  won't  tell,  or  he  can't 
tell,  or  he  's  ashamed  to  tell.  Please  do  you  ask  him  to 
inform  us  in  such  plain  and  simple  English  that,  feeble 
and  unpoetic  as  we  are,  we  can  really  understand  him." 

Robert  responded  in  the  same  gay  spirit.  "  Mr.  Donald 
Fergusson,  poet  and  schoolmaster,  will  you  please  tell  us 

96 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


why  you  are  a  miserable  coward  ?  Miss  Pauline  Marshall, 
of  Indianapolis,  wants  to  know.  And  I,  Robert  Pendexter, 
of  Boston  and  Bolton,  nobody  in  particular,  also  want  to 
know.  And  will  you  please  tell  us  in  straight  English  that 
one  or  both  of  us  can  understand." 

Robert's  voice  was  never  loud,  but  it  was  clear,  and  had 
amazing  carrying  power.  It  evidently  reached  Stephen,  for 
he  turned  around  and  remarked  dryly,  "  You  'd  better  not. 
By  advice  of  counsel.  Fee,  ten  dollars,"  and  went  on 
talking  with  Mr.  Marshall  about  the  currency  and  the 
need  of  greater  elasticity. 

"  But  one  must  always  heed  a  lady ! "  said  Donald,  gal 
lantly.  "  I  'm  a  coward,  mes  amis,  because  I  have  to  earn 
my  living,  and  being  too  lazy  to  get  out  and  hustle  for 
it,  I  stay  indoors  and  teach,  just  because  it 's  the  easiest 
way  and  the  laziest  way  to  butter  my  bread.  And  I  'm 
miserable,  not  because  I  'm  a  coward,  not  a  bit  of  it,  but 
because  I  'm  such  an  unlucky  dog  that  I  know  it.  That 's 
plain  enough,  in  all  conscience,  and  it's  gospel  truth, 
every  word  of  it." 

"  If  it  is  the  truth,"  said  Pauline,  vigorously,  "  you  just 
deserve  to  be  miserable,  much  more  miserable  than  you 
seem  to  be !  If  /  were  a  man,  I  would  n't  work  just  for 
money,  any  more  than  I  would  fly.  I  should  do  exactly 
what  I  wanted  to  do,  outdoors  or  indoors,  and  I  rather 
think  I  should  have  butter  on  my  bread,  too.  But  if  I 
could  n't,  I  would  eat  it  dry ! " 

"There  speaks  my  better  angel!"  exclaimed  Donald, 
with  the  most  impersonal  enthusiasm.  "  That 's  what  the 
poet  in  me  says,  whenever  I  think  of  the  interminable 
mammas  and  papas,  and  then  I  'm  tempted  to  turn  trouba- 

97 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


dour  and  wander  through  sunny  lands.  But  nevertheless, 
behold  the  tragedy,  —  I  go  to  Berlin  !  " 

It  was  always  difficult  to  know  whether  Donald  were 
really  in  earnest,  and  Robert  found  himself  adrift  on 
strange  seas.  He  had  supposed  it  a  piece  of  great  good 
luck  that  Donald  had  this  year's  leave  of  absence,  and  also 
that  Donald  himself  so  regarded  it.  Stephen  had  said  that 
the  year  off  was  for  the  purpose  of  writing  more  poetry. 
More  puzzling  still  was  Pauline's  attitude.  Donald  might 
be  merely  trifling,  but  she,  at  any  rate,  was  always  in 
downright  earnest.  And  here,  in  all  seriousness,  she  was 
treating  money  as  a  matter  of  very  second-rate  importance, 
she  who  seemed  from  her  clothes  and  general  mode  of  life 
always  to  have  had  enough  of  it.  Robert  wondered  if  she 
would  feel  the  same  about  money,  and  esteem  it  so  lightly, 
if  she  had  ever  had  to  live  on  a  clerkship  of  twelve  hun 
dred  a  year. 

There  had  been  a  silence  for  some  moments,  when  Paul 
ine  said,  in  a  tone  of  conviction,  "  Well,  it  is  a  tragedy, 
but  you  deserve  it!  Perhaps  Berlin  will  cure  you,  and 
you  '11  go  home  a  free  man.  That 's  the  most  cheerful  view 
to  take  of  the  situation,  is  n't  it?" 

Robert  looked  at  Pauline  in  amazement.  He  himself 
would  never  have  ventured  to  talk  to  Donald,  or  indeed  to 
any  one  else,  with  such  frankness ;  and  here  Pauline,  who 
hardly  knew  the  man,  was  speaking  not  only  with  amazing 
frankness,  but  also  without  the  least  show  of  consciousness 
that  it  was  not  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  say 
just  what  one  thought.  Robert  was  genuinely  puzzled. 
He  had  been  brought  up  to  think  that  good  fortune  meant 
money.  There  were  other  things  of  course,  like  health  and 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 


education  and  travel,  and  that  remote  good,  salvation, 
which  came  to  decent  people  when  they  died.  But  up  to 
the  final  catastrophe,  it  was  money  which  acted  as  the  sole 
purveyor  of  the  feast,  and  even  at  death,  the  last  will  and 
testament,  properly  made  out  and  duly  charitable,  was  a 
substantial  part  of  one's  cosmic  credentials. 

At  Bolton,  this  gospel  had  been  well  rubbed  into  Robert. 
His  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  never  failed  to  tell  him  that 
he  must  be  frugal  and  thrifty  and  industrious,  and  that 
then  he  would  succeed.  And  to  succeed  meant  to  get 
money.  At  Doane  Street,  it  would  have  been  grotesque  in 
the  extreme  to  suppose  that  such  an  ill-assorted  and  uncon 
genial  group  of  persons  could  have  been  induced  to  come 
together,  day  by  day  and  month  by  month,  for  any  less 
weighty  reason.  From  this  sweeping  charge,  Robert  had  to 
except  Dennis  Sullivan.  The  Irish  boy  had  the  least  money, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  the  most  human  of  them  all.  He 
really  cared  for  the  others,  even  for  Messrs.  Watson  and 
Reed,  whose  manners  had  two  sides,  a  smooth  one  for  cus 
tomers  and  a  rough  one  for  subordinates.  In  Pinckney 
Street,  again,  it  was  lack  of  money  that  was  made  to  ac 
count  for  all  the  shabbiness  of  that  very  shabby  quarter, 
the  shabbiness  of  outlook  as  well  as  of  possessions.  To 
Robert  himself,  money  had  been  the  open  sesame  of  a 
very  dull  world  into  a  world  whose  bigness  and  brightness 
he  was  only  just  beginning  to  discover. 

Robert  had  half  learned  the  lesson  of  not  asking  direct 
questions  through  his  slight  intercourse  with  Alicia,  and 
theoretically,  at  least,  had  accepted  it  as  part  of  the  stand 
ard  for  his  readjusted  behavior.  But  here  was  an  issue 
in  which  he  was  too  genuinely  interested  to  let  the  sub- 

99 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


ject  drop,  even  if  he  had  to  do  violence  to  the  new  canon. 
"  If  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Marshall,"  he  said,  "  I  should 
like  very  much  to  know  what  you  think  a  man  ought  to 
do?" 

"  Dear  me,  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  answered  Paul 
ine,  promptly.  "  But  all  I  can  tell  you  is  what  I  should 
do  myself,  —  if  I  were  a  man." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  Robert  replied, 
thankful,  however,  that  Pauline  was  not  a  man. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  would  n't 
be.  I  wouldn't  be  an  artist  of  any  sort  or  kind,  that  is, 
a  painter,  or  a  writer,  or  a  musician,  —  not  for  worlds! " 

Robert  opened  his  eyes  very  wide.  He  himself  would 
have  given  his  right  hand  to  be  a  poet.  "  Why  not  ?  "  he 
demanded  eagerly. 

"  Because  they  're  a  sickly  lot,"  Pauline  answered,  with 
an  amusing  air  of  conviction.  "  I  'd  be  a  man  first  and 
last  and  always,  and  not  a  poor,  driveling  creature  pluck 
ing  at  his  sensations  the  whole  livelong  time,  and  throwing 
them  into  the  market  just  as  fast  as  he  can  get  hold  of 
them!" 

"  Whew  !  "  cried  Donald;  "  what  an  insufferable  world 
it  would  be,  without  pictures,  or  books,  or  music !  " 

"  I  did  n't  say  I  would  do  without  these  things,"  Pauline 
protested.  "  I  only  said  that  I  would  n't  be  one  of  those 
professional  factories  that  do  nothing  but  turn  such  things 
out.  I  should  like  to  paint  a  picture  or  write  a  book,  or 
put  together  something  new  in  music,  if  I  were  not  too 
stupid,  but  I  'd  want  to  do  it  in  a  big  way,  just  because  I 
had  to,  and  not  keep  on  repeating  myself  until  I  became 
a  chromo  factory,  or  a  typewriter,  or  a  Swiss  music-box." 

100 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


"  You  're  a  most  abandoned  heretic,"  said  Donald ; 
"but  do  go  on.  What  else  wouldn't  you  be,  —  'not  for 
worlds '  ?  " 

Pauline  made  a  wry  face  at  this  return  of  her  own 
phrase,  but  went  on,  more  in  answer  to  Robert  than  to 
Donald :  "  Then  I  would  n't  be  a  doctor,  for  1  hate  sick 
people,  especially  people  who  get  sick  through  their  own 
fault,  and  then  when  you  have  them  patched  up,  go  right 
away  and  get  sick  again.  And  I  wouldn't  be  a  lawyer 
because  I  hate  quarrelsome  people  —  " 

"  How 's  that,  Stephen  ?  "  cried  Donald ;  "  Miss  Marshall 
says  she  would  n't  be  a  lawyer  because  she  hates  quarrel 
some  people  !  But  she  does  n't  say  whether  she  means  that 
the  lawyers  themselves  are  quarrelsome,  or  that  their 
clients  are." 

Stephen  was  growing  a  little  weary  of  the  subject  of 
American  finance,  especially  as  he  and  Mr.  Marshall 
could  not  agree  upon  the  matter  of  the  currency,  and  was 
therefore  glad  to  be  drawn  into  the  conversation  of  the 
younger  people. 

"  It  would  n't  be  polite  to  ask  her  point-blank,  since 
she  's  not  on  the  witness-stand,"  he  said  promptly,  "  but 
I  '11  take  her  up  on  either  count.  In  the  first  place,  you 
must  know,  my  children,  that  lawyers  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth—" 

"  And  have  long  since  lost  their  savor,"  put  in  Pauline, 
quietly. 

Stephen  laughed  in  his  characteristic  wriggling  way, 
that  always  made  one  feel  that  he  was  hugging  himself 
with  the  sheer  pleasure  of  it.  "  That 's  one  on  me,  all 
right,"  he  admitted  heartily.  "  I  '11  start  again.  Lawyers 

101 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


are  not  quarrelsome.  They  hate  quarrels,  and  they  do  their 
best  to  prevent  quarrels.  They  have  the  look  of  fighting- 
machines,  —  I  '11  admit  that,  —  and  sometimes  they  're 
called  into  pretty  hot  action.  But  they  are  like  the  army 
and  navy,  the  greatest  promoters  of  peace  on  earth.  Our 
own  President  says  so,  —  vide  '  Congressional  Record,' 
volume  so-and-so,  page  so-and-so  —  " 

'*  About  lawyers,  or  about  the  army  and  navy  ?  "  asked 
Donald. 

"  I  don't  just  recollect,"  Stephen  answered.  "  I  think  he 
was  speaking  about  the  army  and  navy.  But  to  continue. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  lawyers,  people  would  grow  to  be 
so  quarrelsome  that  there  would  be  no  living  in  the  house 
with  them !  " 

"  That  would  be  just  what  I  want,"  interrupted  Paul 
ine,  "  for  then  we  could  live  outdoors  with  them." 

"  Verdict  for  the  plaintiff,"  sang  out  Stephen.  "  All  the 
same,  the  defendant  will  appeal  the  case  to  the  upper  court 
and  go  on  practicing." 

"  What  about  the  ministry  ?  "  asked  Robert,  whose  New 
England  traditions  made  him  regard  the  parish  minister 
as  a  person  much  to  be  looked  up  to.  "  Would  you  be  a 
minister,  Miss  Marshall  ?  " 

"Never!  "  Pauline  cried  emphatically .  "Not  for  world's/" 
she  added,  glancing  at  Donald. 

"  Not  even  for  the  other  world  ?  "  suggested  Stephen. 

"  Not  even  for  the  other  world,"  Pauline  replied,  "  for  I 
don't  believe  in  it." 

"  You  don't  believe  in  the  other  world  ?  "  Robert  asked, 
quite  aghast.  "You  don't  believe  surely  that  when  you 
die,  you  just  go  out  like  a  snuffed  candle,  do  you?" 

102 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


"  Yes,  I  do,"  Pauline  answered.  "  Does  that  seem  to 
you  so  very  horrible  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  does.  It  makes  things  seem  so  hopeless." 

"  I  don't  find  them  hopeless,"  Pauline  replied.  "  On  the 
contrary,  I  find  things  very  much  to  my  taste  just  as  they 
are.  Of  course,  I  don't  say  that  there  may  not  be  another 
world  after  this  one,  perhaps  many  of  them,  but  I  should  n't 
be  willing  to  preach  it,  for  it  may  not  be  so.  In  fact,  I 
shouldn't  be  willing  to  preach  it  anyhow.  I  think  the 
preaching,  like  the  painting  and  all  the  other  things,  ought 
to  be  incidental,  just  a  part  of  our  natural  daily  life.  Not 
so  much  preaching,  you  know,  as  just  doing  the  right  thing 
without  saying  anything  about  it.  I  couldn't  make  my 
salt  at  preaching,  for  I  should  always  say  the  same  thing, 
and  when  people  had  heard  my  one  sermon,  they  would  n't 
go  on  paying  to  hear  it  over  and  over  again." 

"What  would  you  say  in  your  one  sermon?"  asked 
Robert,  eagerly  anxious  to  fill  up  the  gap  that  seemed 
yawning  between  Pauline  and  himself. 

Pauline  stretched  out  her  hands  in  happy  imitation  of 
the  attitude  of  exhortation,  and  exclaimed,  "  I  should  say, 
'  My  brethren  and  my  sisteren,  be  big, — just  be  big !  And 
to-morrow,  be  a  little  bigger ! '  And  the  next  time  I  should 
say  precisely  the  same  thing." 

"  A  mighty  good  sermon,"  commented  Stephen.  "  You 
don't  have  to  be  a  minister  to  say  that,  or  to  have  a  pulpit 
to  say  it  in.  But  it 's  only  fair  to  add,  though,  that  your 
modern  minister  is  not  so  much  a  preacher  as  an  organizer 
of  social  work,  a  man  set  apart  to  look  after  the  more  ideal 
interests  of  society." 

"  That 's  just  it !  "  said  Pauline,  quickly.  "  I  should  n't 
103 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


want  to  be  a  man  set  apart  for  anything  whatever.  I  should 
want  to  be  a  part  of  the  ideal  interest,  and  not  the  boss, 
not  even  if  I  could  wear  a  frock  coat  and  a  top  hat  and  a 
white  tie  all  the  time !  " 

Robert  was  puzzled.  Stephen  was  delighted,  for  here 
was  an  honest  sinner  after  his  own  heart.  Donald  was 
merely  amused.  Billy  did  n't  know  what  they  were  all 
talking  about.  They  all  laughed,  after  the  stupid  manner 
of  grown-ups,  when  there  was  nothing  in  sight  to  laugh  at, 
and  so  Billy  in  disgust  had  carried  off  his  father  as  the 
least  incomprehensible  companion  of  the  lot. 

It  was  Donald  who  summed  up  the  situation  :  "  Miss 
Marshall  would  n't  work  for  money,  and  she  would  n't  be 
a  painter,  or  a  writer,  or  a  musician.  And  she  would  n't 
be  a  doctor,  or  a  lawyer,  or  a  clergyman.  There  is  only 
one  thing  left.  Like  your  humble  servant,  she  would  be 
a  pedagogue,  only  learned !  " 

"  Would  you  be  a  teacher,  Miss  Marshall,  —  if  you  were 
a  man?"  asked  Robert,  with  renewed  interest. 

Pauline  held  up  her  hands  in  protest.  "  You  make  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  a  school-girl  again,  and  trying  to  pass 
an  examination,  —  you  hurl  so  many  questions  at  me.  Yes, 
I  would  be  a  teacher,  but  only  as  I  would  be  the  other 
things,  just  by  the  way,  you  know.  I  would  n't  teach  in  a 
school-room  for  anything,  —  unless  I  had  to.  I  'd  teach  in 
my  own  home,  —  my  children,  if  I  had  any  —  and  my 
wife,  if  she  'd  let  me !  " 

"  You  perceive  that  Mademoiselle  knows  the  sex,"  put 
in  Donald.  "  She  adds  the  one  necessary  condition." 

Pauline  ignored  the  thrust,  and  continued  :  "  But  I 
would  n't  teach  even  them  unless  I  got  paid  for  it !  " 

104 


THE   OPEN  ROAD 


"  How  mercenary !  "  ejaculated  Donald,  while  Robert 
pricked  up  his  ears. 

"  I  did  n't  say  in  what  coin,"  Pauline  hastened  to  add, 
in  her  own  defense.  "  I  would  only  teach  them  if  they 
would  teach  me  in  return." 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid,"  said  Donald,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  knew.  "  If  you  had  a  lot  of  small  boys  to  look 
after,  they  'd  teach  you  and  no  mistake,  more  than  you 
could  ever  teach  them.  And  though  it 's  only  hearsay,  I 
understand  that  wives  like  nothing  better  than  to  instruct 
and  discipline  their  husbands." 

"  Don't  be  discouraged  from  taking  unto  yourself  a 
wife  by  anything  that  Donald  may  say,"  put  in  Stephen, 
in  his  judicial  manner ;  "  that  is,  supposing  you  were  a 
man.  It 's  well  known  —  so  I  need  n't  hesitate  to  mention 
it  —  that  Donald  writes  sonnets  to  half  a  dozen  maidens 
in  the  same  month,  and  is  only  deterred  from  saying  '  Wilt 
thou  ?  '  by  the  overwhelming  —  I  might  say  insurmount 
able  —  difficulty  of  choosing  one  and  throwing  over  the 
other  five.  Donald  would  be  a  settled  married  man,  and 
pushing  a  perambulator  in  some  quiet  suburb,  were  only 
the  other  fair  charmers  away." 

"  That 's  just  the  point  I  was  trying  to  make  against 
all  your  poets  and  writers,"  said  Pauline.  "  They  are  so 
busy  studying  their  emotions,  and  blowing  bubbles  with 
them,  and  recording  them  with  due  regard  to  literary 
style,  that  no  big  emotion  ever  takes  possession  of  them 
and  sweeps  them  off  their  feet  into  real  happiness." 

"  Stung  again,  Donald  !  "  cried  Stephen.  "  You  're  up 
against  a  tough  proposition  when  you  throw  gibes  at 
American  girls." 

105 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


"  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  personal,"  protested  Pauline. 
"  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Fergusson,  if  I  seemed  to  be." 

Donald  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  I  am  getting  it  rather 
hard,  but  doubtless  I  deserve  it.  If  Stephen  ever  falls  in 
love,  he  will  throw  his  judicial  habits  into  the  waste-paper 
basket,  and  elope  in  a  very  whirlwind  of  passion." 

"  That  I  will,"  assented  Stephen,  cheerfully.  "  Just  as 
soon  as  I  find  the  right  girl,  and  especially  if  there  are 
any  dangerous  rivals  in  sight.  But  meanwhile,  if  I  might 
suggest  such  a  thing,  we  have  wandered  pretty  far  from  the 
point  at  issue,  and  that  is  the  momentous  question  as  to 
what  Miss  Pauline  Marshall  would  do,  were  she  a  man, 
and  called  upon  to  make  his  or  her  own  living.  With  rare 
skill  it  has  been  brought  out  what  Miss  Marshall  would 
not  do.  It  still  remains  to  learn  what  she  would  do.  And 
if  I  understand  the  situation  aright,  unless  this  disclosure 
is  clearly  made  before  we  reach  The  Royal  Oak,  Mr. 
Robert  Pendexter  will  be  quite  unable  to  eat  a  mouthful 
of  luncheon." 

Donald  looked  at  his  friend  in  mock  admiration.  "  What 
it  is  to  have  a  great  mind !  So  much  better,  dear  Miss 
Marshall,  than  mere  emotions." 

Pauline  was  not  to  be  trapped  again.  "  Speaking  in 
general,"  she  said,  with  smiling  caution,  "  very  much 
better!  It's  left  to  me  to  rescue  Mr.  Pendexter  and 
disclose  what  I  would  do  if  I  were  a  man.  I  wish  I 
were !  " 

"  As  far  as  I  can  see,"  Stephen  suggested,  "  there  are 
only  three  things  left  to  you,  unless  you  wanted  to  be  a 
mere  manual  laborer  and  work  in  a  ditch  or  a  factory. 
You  could  be  a  business  man,  or  a  farmer,  or  you  could 

106 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


be  a  coupon-clipper,  like  that  favorite  of  fortune,  our 
friend,  Mr.  Pendexter." 

Robert  winced  a  little  at  this  reference  to  himself,  but 
Pauline  seemed  not  to  notice  it. 

"  Rather  stupid  alternatives,"  she  said.  "  I  should  n't 
want  to  be  any  of  them,  neither  a  business  man,  nor  a 
farmer,  and  I  could  n't  be  a  coupon-clipper." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Robert. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,"  Pauline  answered, "  as  I  would  n't 
work  for  money  in  the  first  instance,  I  should  n't  be  able 
to  buy  anything  that  would  bear  a  crop  of  coupons,  would 
I  now?" 

"No,"  admitted  Robert;  "but  suppose  some  one  left 
them  to  you,  that  is,  investments  that  would  bring  you  in 
enough  money  to  live  on,  —  what  then  ?  "  Robert  meant 
to  be  wholly  impersonal,  but  the  vivacity  of  his  manner 
made  it  clear  that  he  was  really  asking  judgment  on  his 
own  case. 

Pauline  chose  to  ignore  this  aspect  of  the  problem, 
and  answered  without  hesitation,  "  That  would  never  sat 
isfy  me.  Men  can't  all  be  coupon-clippers.  It  would  n't  be 
a  possible  scheme  for  all  people  to  live  on  incomes.  Some 
body  must  do  the  work,  must  keep  the  pot  boiling,  must 
make  the  food  and  shelter  and  clothes.  I  should  want 
to  do  a  man's  share  along  with  the  rest.  I  would  n't  work 
for  money,  but  I  would  work  for  bread  and  butter." 

Stephen  shook  his  head  as  if  he  were  greatly  shocked, 
and  said  with  assumed  gravity,  "  I  fear  me  that  you  are  a 
wicked  socialist,  and  will  corrupt  our  young  friend,  Mr. 
Pendexter." 

"  I  don't  know  what  a  socialist  is,"  Pauline  answered, 
107 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  and  I  don't  believe  that  you  do.  I  never  met  anybody 
that  did.  But  all  the  same,  I  've  said  just  what  I  mean." 
Pauline  threw  back  her  shoulders  and  drew  in  a  long 
breath  of  the  good  air. 

"  I  quite  believe  that  you  Ve  said  what  you  mean," 
Stephen  replied,  "  or  at  least  that  you  mean  what  you  Ve 
said.  But  you  have  n't  told  us  yet  how  you  'd  make  your 
bread  and  butter,  if  you  declined  the  old  and  popular 
route  via  money.  Mr.  Pendexter's  luncheon  is  still  in 
jeopardy." 

"  I  'd  find  a  way,"  said  Pauline,  confidently.  "  For  one 
thing,  I  'd  live  in  the  country  in  a  big,  plain  house  with 
plenty  of  land  around  it." 

"But  where  would  you  get  it?"  persisted  Stephen. 
"  All  persons  can't  have  such  estates." 

"  I  'd  accept  as  much  as  that  from  my  grandfather," 
Pauline  answered.  "  The  world  is  not  new,  just  beginning. 
Our  ancestors  have  done  a  lot  of  good  work,  into  which 
we  come  by  a  very  natural  inheritance.  I  could  accept 
such  a  home  from  the  past  with  clear  conscience.  And  if 
it  was  n't  forthcoming,  I  'd  make  enough  money  to  buy 
the  home  for  myself.  There  are  plenty  of  them,  not  in 
fashionable  localities,  perhaps,  or  even  in  very  convenient 
localities.  But  they  could  be  made  beautiful,  and  that 
would  be  enough,  would  n't  it?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Stephen  replied,  with  a  slight  shrug 
of  his  shoulders.  "But  how  would  you  support  such  a 
home,  when  you  had  it  ?  how  pay  the  butcher,  the  baker, 
the  candlestick-maker,  buy  clothes  for  the  kids  and  send 
them  to  school,  pay  the  cook,  the  chamber-maid,  the 
waitress,  the  stable-boy,  the  hired  man,  to  say  nothing 

108 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


of  new  bonnets  for  Madame  and  occasional  jaunts  to 
Europe?" 

Pauline  laughed  at  the  overwhelming  list  of  expendi 
tures.  "  You  don't  frighten  me  one  little  bit.  We  should 
never  for  a  moment  consent  to  such  extravagance.  We 
should  do  most  of  our  own  work,  raise  most  of  our  own 
food,  make  most  of  our  own  clothes,  teach  the  children 
ourselves  until  they  got  too  big  for  us,  and  when  we  did 
need  things  that  cost  money,  I  'd  work  for  them  in  any 
way  I  could." 

"  That  would  be  working  for  money,"  said  Robert. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  would  n't,"  Pauline  protested ;  "  only  for 
money  en  route  to  the  things  we  actually  needed,  and 
never  beyond  that." 

"  It  would  keep  you  pretty  busy  to  carry  through 
such  a  program,"  suggested  Stephen,  "  for  you  would  lose 
the  benefit  of  the  division  of  labor.  But  the  weakest  part 
in  the  whole  scheme  seems  to  me  that  when  all  is  done 
and  said,  I  can't  see  for  the  life  of  me  that  you  're  getting 
anywhere.  What 's  the  purpose  in  such  a  life  ?  Where 
does  civilization  come  in,  and  progress?  What  should  you 
say  you  were  aiming  at  ?  How  could  you  justify  such  a 
life  ?  People  would  say  that  you  were  n't  taking  your 
part  in  the  great  struggle  for  existence,  that  you  were 
playing  while  the  rest  were  working.  How  could  you 
answer  them  ?  Where  would  you  turn  up  at  the  end  of 
it  all?" 

Robert  listened  eagerly  for  Pauline's  answers.  Stephen 
had  voiced  his  own  doubts,  and  had  done  it  more  clearly 
than  he  could  have  hoped  to  do  it  for  himself.  The  Pen- 
dexter  conscience  was  appalled  at  the  picture  of  such 

109 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


unabashed  and  irresponsible  happiness.  Pauline,  in  turn, 
was  amused  at  their  earnestness.  Their  position  was  quite 
as  incomprehensible  to  her  as  her  position  was  to  them. 
She  found  it  difficult  to  answer  them,  not  because  answers 
from  her  point  of  view  were  not  forthcoming,  but  because 
they  seemed  to  be  speaking  a  different  language. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  puckering  up  her  forehead  in  the 
effort  to  be  more  than  commonly  lucid,  and  incidentally 
making  Robert  think  her  more  charming  than  ever. 
"You  see  most  people  work  for  money, — even  poets. 
They  think  they  are  working  for  the  good  things  money 
will  buy.  They  all  begin  that  way,  except  the  out-and-out 
misers.  But  money  can  be  hoarded,  —  that 's  the  bother 
with  it.  So  people  put  off  buying  the  good  thing,  and 
hoard  up  their  money  to  buy  something  better.  It  gets  to 
be  a  habit.  Even  Billy  does  it,  though  he  knows  father 
will  give  him  everything  he  wants.  This  goes  on  and  on 
until  the  money  comes  to  be  looked  upon  as  being  itself 
the  good  thing,  and  you  have  what  you  have.  If  I  were  a 
man,  I  shouldn't  work  for  money, — I  should  work  for 
leisure,  and  more  and  more  of  it.  You  can't  hoard  leisure. 
You  must  spend  it  just  as  fast  as  it  conies.  And  that  means 
life, —  to-day — now — this  minute  —  always.  Can't  you 
see  that  the  one  good  thing  is  to  live!  One  can  ask 
nothing  beyond  that ! " 

Robert  was  naturally  stirred  at  this  outburst,  for  Pauline 
was  magnificent  in  her  enthusiasm.  Stephen  looked  at  the 
girl  in  momentary  admiration,  but  was  still  above  all  else 
the  lawyer.  "  That 's  all  very  well,"  he  said ;  "  but  what 
would  you  do  with  your  leisure?  One  must  get  somewhere 
with  one's  life.  How  would  you  justify  yourself  to  others? " 

110 


THE   OPEN   ROAD 


"  Justify  myself  to  others !  "  —  Pauline  fairly  blazed  — 
"  I  'd  never  do  such  a  degrading  thing.  No  human  being 
has  a  right  to  call  me  to  account,  —  even  to  question  me. 
I  should  n't  attempt  to  justify  myself,  even  to  myself. 
And  as  for  the  point  of  it,  you  miss  it  all,  if  you  are 
forever  trying  to  get  somewhere  with  your  life.  It 's  enough 
to  live.  That 's  what  I  'd  do  with  my  leisure,  spend  it 
greedily  on  life, — just  live.  I'd  sit  in  the  sun  and  do 
nothing,  if  I  wanted  to !  There 's  plenty  to  do  with  leisure, 
if  you  're  not  trying  all  the  time  to  trade  it  off  for  money. 
I  've  just  told  you  that  I  am  one  of  those  people  who  are 
not  sure  of  another  life.  But  I  want  it  tremendously  in 
order  to  have  more  leisure,  —  leisure  not  for  getting  some 
where,  but  just  to  spend.  I  'd  love  my  wife  and  children, 
read  the  books  I  want  to  read,  eat  the  fruit  in  my  orchard, 
pick  the  flowers  in  my  garden,  bathe  in  the  brook,  wander 
on  the  hill-tops,  ride  in  the  valley,  lie  on  my  back  in  the 
moonlight,  hear  songs  and  music,  keep  Thanksgiving  Day 
every  day  in  the  year,  be  a  friend  worth  having.  I  'd 
taste  life  to  the  full,—  to  the  very  f ull.  That 's  what  I  'd 
do  if  I  were  a  man !  " 

"  And  being  a  woman  ?  "  Stephen  asked,  with  interest. 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  can !  "  said  Pauline,  more  quietly. 

"  And  when  you  came  to  die,  what  then  ? "  asked 
Robert,  almost  involuntarily.  It  seemed  to  him,  even  as 
he  spoke,  as  if  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  had  put  the 
question,  and  not  he  himself. 

There  was  something  almost  scornful  in  Pauline's  an 
swer.  "  When  I  came  to  die  ?  Well,  for  one  thing,  I 
should  n't  be  a  coward.  I  should  n't  say  I  was  glad  to  go 
unless  the  life  spark  were  really  quite  spent.  In  that  case, 

111 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


I  should  go  because  I  had  to,  and  without  asking  a  ques 
tion.  I  can  take  the  unknown  on  trust !  " 

" It  seems  to  me"  said  Stephen,  with  the  air  of  the 
judgeship  strong  upon  him,  "  that  it 's  just  as  well  you 
are  a  woman  and  will  have  a  husband  to  manage  the 
finances.  The  only  way  to  have  leisure  in  this  mixed-up 
world  of  ours  is  to  have  some  one  else  finger  the  pocket- 
book,  either  a  husband  or  an  ancestor,  and  to  have  them 
do  it  to  a  pretty  lively  quickstep." 

Pauline  laughed,  and  Robert  thought  what  a  very  beau 
tiful  world  it  would  be  if  only  Pauline  would  take  a  hus 
band.  The  color  mounted  into  his  cheeks,  and  when  at 
last  they  all  marched  into  The  Royal  Oak,  at  Bettws-y- 
Coed,  Robert  looked  the  least  tired  of  the  party.  For  the 
moment,  all  the  vexed  problems  of  the  road  slipped  out  of 
his  mind,  quite  lost  in  the  one  blissful  fact  that  he  loved 
Pauline,  and  that  he  knew  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 
ADRIFT 

ON  the  following  evening  our  three  young  friends  and  the 
Marshalls  found  themselves  established  at  Bowness  in  a 
hostelry  which  for  some  not  easily  discernible  reason  called 
itself  Old  England.  But  it  offered  fairly  pleasant  rooms, 
and  a  garden  which  stretched  down  to  the  shore  of  Win- 
dermere. 

The  three  young  men  had  gathered  up  their  traps  at 
Chester,  and,  once  more  in  Liverpool,  had  snatched  a 
moment  at  the  tailor's,  while  the  Marshalls  drove  to  the 
banker's  and  attended  to  their  own  errands.  Robert  was 
measured  for  the  first  evening  suit  he  had  ever  owned  in 
his  life,  and  quite  without  protest  had  allowed  Stephen 
to  get  him  in  for  an  extra  five  pounds  on  an  additional 
dinner-coat.  Stephen  added  a  figured  waistcoat  to  a 
wardrobe  already  more  than  abundant.  Donald,  with  the 
frugality  of  those  living  on  their  capital,  waited  until  they 
got  to  the  haberdasher's,  and  contented  himself  with  one 
new  necktie. 

By  afternoon  the  coats  were  ready  to  try  on,  and  the 
finished  garments  were  promised  for  the  following  after 
noon,  to  be  sent  by  express  to  Bowness.  Stephen  man 
aged  the  trunks  so  adroitly  that  none  of  them  arrived  at 
the  hotel  that  evening,  and  all  three  men  were  obliged  to 
appear  at  dinner  in  their  traveling-clothes.  The  other 
guests  at  Old  England  stared  less  than  usual  at  this 

113 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


unorthodox  dress,  since  even  Englishmen  walking  through 
the  Lake  District  with  no  luggage  beyond  a  knapsack 
were  commonly  reduced  to  similar  straits.  Pauline  ap 
peared  in  a  fresh  costume,  so  beautiful  in  its  simplicity 
that  it  made  the  more  elaborate  gowns  of  the  other  women 
look  worn  and  faded,  and  set  the  women  themselves  to 
wondering,  with  some  little  irritation,  how  these  American 
girls  managed  to  look  so  pretty  on  practically  nothing  at 
all. 

Pauline  herself  was  radiant.  Liverpool  and  the  dismal 
coal  country  that  lies  between  it  and  the  Lakes  had  filled 
her  pagan  soul  with  gloom,  and  made  her  feel,  in  spite  of 
the  comfort  of  a  first-class  railway  carriage,  that  she  was 
being  slowly  suffocated.  Robert  had  watched  her  with 
interest.  He  was  conscious  of  a  little  falling  off  in  his  own 
spirits,  due  to  the  depressing  clouds  of  coal  smoke  that 
hung  like  a  pall  over  the  sooty  towns  and  villages ;  but  he 
had  put  it  all  down  to  the  fact  that  it  carried  him  mo 
mentarily  back  to  the  gloom  of  Doane  Street.  But  his  own 
moods  were  rapidly  becoming  mere  reflections  of  Pauline's. 
As  far  as  he  personally  was  concerned,  he  would  have  been 
happy  in  a  coal  mine  itself,  if  only  Pauline  had  been  there 
with  him.  As  it  was,  he  had  felt  a  personal  grievance 
against  the  whole  landscape  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  weighed  on  Pauline  and  cast  a  temporary  shadow  over 
her  superb  spirits. 

But  at  Bowness  all  dull  spirits  and  all  grievances  com 
pletely  disappeared.  The  sun  was  shining  through  an 
atmosphere  devoid  of  coal  dust ;  the  children  looked  clean 
and  happy ;  the  earth  spread  out  before  them  like  a  favored 
garden  where  soot  and  smoke  and  ugliness  found  no  home. 

114 


ADRIFT 


They  had  driven  down  to  the  lake,  and  to  the  hospitality 
of  Old  England,  on  top  of  a  coach  that  suggested  nothing 
so  much  as  a  mere  perch  in  space.  But  it  was  a  perch  that 
rushed  through  the  sweet  air,  past  quaint  shops  and  trim 
villas,  country  lanes  and  homelike  cottages,  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  their  own  spirits. 

Robert  had  the  unspeakable  good  fortune  to  sit  next  to 
Pauline.  When  they  caught  their  first  glimpse  of  the  lake, 
it  was  already  sunset.  The  smooth  waters  and  the  green 
hills  that  surrounded  them  were  bathed  in  a  golden  light 
that  brought  out  their  own  proper  color,  and  yet  fused 
them  into  one  dream-like  unity.  Robert  touched  Pauline's 
hand.  He  did  it  so  impulsively  that  no  prim  New  Eng 
land  ancestor  had  time  to  inhibit  the  movement.  Pauline's 
hand,  like  his  own,  was  ungloved.  The  quick  contact,  the 
almost  imperceptible  pressure  that  he  allowed  himself,  sent 
a  thrill  through  Robert  that  made  him  forget  the  sunset, 
and  for  the  moment  remember  only  Pauline. 

Pauline  accepted  the  movement  as  simply  as  if  it  had 
been  an  exclamation  of  wonder.  She  turned  towards 
Robert  and  answered  him  quite  as  if  he  had  put  some 
question.  "  It  is  fine,  is  n't  it?  Now  I  am  alive  again.  I 
wish  I  could  live  here  always." 

"  Windermere  's  a  regular  corker,"  chimed  in  Billy ;  and 
then,  his  patriotism  coming  to  the  front,  he  added  judi 
ciously,  "  It 's  most  as  pretty  as  Lake  Asquam." 

"  It 's  prettier,  you  little  bigot,"  said  Stephen,  almost 
harshly. 

"  What 's  a  bigot  ?  "  asked  Billy,  appealing  rather  to 
Donald  than  to  Stephen.  "  If  I  'm  a  little  bigot,  I  'd  like 
to  know  what  it  means." 

115 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  Sound  principle,"  murmured  Stephen.  "  The  proper 
study  of  mankind  is  man." 

Donald  answered  rather  more  lucidly.  "  A  bigot,  sonny, 
is  a  fellow  that  gets  such  a  tight  grip  on  the  truth  that  it 
screws  his  eyes  fast  shut,  and  he  can't  tell  what  he  's  got 
hold  of." 

Billy  looked  bewildered  a  moment,  but  got  out  of  the 
difficulty  by  speedily  remarking,  "  Well,  I  guess  I  'm  not 
a  bigot,  then,  for  /  never  shut  my  eyes  unless  I  'm  fast 
asleep.  Do  I,  Pauline  ?  " 

u  I  suppose  not,"  the  girl  answered. 

Robert  had  withdrawn  his  hand.  The  sunset  colors 
were  already  beginning  to  fade,  and  Robert  was  dimly 
conscious  that  his  own  elation  was  fading  with  them.  He 
had  seemed  just  for  a  moment  to  have  come  so  near  Paul 
ine,  and  then  he  had  suddenly  become  conscious  that  in 
reality  he  had  not  come  near  her  at  all.  Robert  had  still 
to  learn  that  until  it  is  returned,  love  is  a  pain,  a  bewil 
derment,  a  fancy ;  that  love  is  like  quarreling,  —  it  takes 
two  to  make  it  complete. 

It  was  a  curious  part  of  Robert's  present  emotional 
state  that  he  had  never  really  asked  himself  whether  by 
any  chance  Pauline  could  seriously  care  for  him,  or  even 
in  some  future  hour  of  good  fortune  could  be  induced  to 
care  for  him.  It  was  probably  just  as  well  that  he  never 
put  the  question.  He  had  such  a  poor  opinion  of  him 
self  that  he  would  have  answered  it  overwhelmingly  in 
the  negative.  Certainly  no  detail  of  remembrance  could 
bring  to  mind  a  single  incident  in  which  Pauline  had 
expressed  the  smallest  preference  for  him  or  for  his  com 
pany.  She  had  accepted  all  three  young  men  as  pleasant 

116 


ADRIFT 


additions  to  their  own  limited  party,  and  had  shown  a 
frank  enjoyment  which  allowed  no  personal  illusions  on 
the  part  of  any  of  them. 

At  dinner,  however,  all  Robert's  momentary  depressions 
and  doubts  were  lost  in  the  general  sense  of  good-fellow 
ship  which  pervaded  the  party.  They  sat  much  as  they 
did  at  Gorphwysfa,  except  that  they  now  had  a  table  to 
themselves,  and  Billy,  having  captured  Donald,  had  him 
on  his  left,  while  Mr.  Marshall  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
opposite  Pauline.  Robert  sat  at  her  right,  and  practically 
had  the  girl  all  to  himself,  for  the  party  divided  itself  quite 
naturally  into  pairs.  Stephen  and  Mr.  Marshall,  once  off 
the  dangerous  subject  of  the  currency,  got  on  together  fa 
mously.  Billy  monopolized  Donald,  not  by  any  explicit 
permission,  but  at  least  without  protest,  as  Donald  found 
Pauline  too  little  complex  for  his  own  taste,  too  much  of 
"  a  natural  history  girl,"  as  he  himself  phrased  it ;  and 
Mr.  Marshall,  with  his  absorption  in  affairs,  quite  frankly 
bored  him. 

Robert  had  met  too  few  people  socially  to  have  acquired 
the  analytical  habit.  Being  decidedly  negative  himself, 
he  liked  everybody  who  was  at  all  nice  to  him ;  and  Mr. 
Marshall  and  Pauline  and  Billy,  all  having  been  nice  to 
him  in  a  genuine,  impersonal  way,  he  liked  them  all,  and 
Pauline  he  loved,  or  fancied  that  he  loved,  which,  for  per 
sons  not  particularly  skilled  in  introspective  analysis,  is 
very  much  the  same  thing.  Under  the  influence  of  this 
feeling,  Robert  quite  let  himself  go.  Instead  of  the  shy, 
silent  creature  of  Pinckney  Street  circles,  he  was  rapidly 
becoming  a  more  interesting  and  attractive  man.  Pauline 
was  deepening  what  the  steamer  life  had  begun.  How 

117 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


rapidly  Robert  was  blossoming,  he  himself  was  least  of  all 
aware,  for  by  the  happy  law  of  such  encounters,  the  more 
conscious  he  became  of  Pauline,  and  the  more  engrossed 
in  her  large  personality,  the  less  conscious  he  grew  of  him 
self,  and  the  less  paralyzed  by  a  sense  of  his  own  limi 
tations.  Robert  found  it  easy  to  talk  to  Pauline,  much 
easier  than  it  had  been  to  talk  to  Alicia,  and  Pauline 
found  it  easy  to  talk  to  Robert.  There  was  nothing  par 
ticularly  edifying  in  their  talk.  The  worldly  wise  would 
certainly  not  have  thought  it  worth  reporting  or  preserv 
ing.  They  talked  much  as  two  children  might  have  talked, 
occasionally  about  themselves  and  their  own  nai've  experi 
ments  in  life,  but  generally  about  outdoor  matters  and  the 
surface  of  things.  There  were  no  deep  waters  in  this  talk, 
no  subtle  meanings  and  pleasant  intellectual  surprises. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  lacked  the  touch  of  fancy  and  the 
unexpected  turnings  in  the  road  that  made  the  talk  be 
tween  Donald  and  Billy  seem  quite  worth  while ;  or  even 
the  practical  common-sense  that  gave  to  Stephen  and  Mr. 
Marshall  the  air  of  being  veritable  Solons  in  the  world  of 
affairs.  And  yet  of  the  three,  the  talk  between  Robert 
and  Pauline  was  the  most  significant.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  whether  it  was  doing  anything  in  particular  for 
Pauline,  since  so  much  in  the  contemporaneous  lives  of 
women  puts  on  significance,  or  puts  it  off,  wholly  in  the 
light  of  subsequent  events.  In  the  case  of  Robert,  how 
ever,  it  was  unwrapping  some  of  the  outer  layers  of  the 
many  that  still  enfolded  his  spirit.  Robert  was  being 
educated,  for  after  all  has  been  said  and  done,  education 
is  merely  the  unfolding  of  the  human  spirit,  and  culture 
the  perfecting  of  the  spirit. 

118 


ADRIFT 


As  the  other  three  men  were  smokers,  and  Robert  was 
not,  it  was  quite  natural  for  him  to  accompany  Pauline 
when  she  withdrew  from  the  dining-room,  and  quite  as 
natural  for  them  to  select  the  garden  rather  than  the  ill- 
furnished  drawing-room.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the  talk 
might  have  lost  its  full-bodied  flowing  current,  and  re 
duced  itself  to  rather  pitiable  trickling,  had  not  Pauline, 
in  her  blunt,  wholesome  way,  proposed  that  it  stop  alto 
gether,  and  that  they  simply  enjoy  the  moonlight  and  the 
lake.  So  it  happened  that  they  silently  walked  up  and 
down  the  gravel  paths,  or  sat  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time 
on  the  benches  near  the  pier.  For  Pauline,  nothing  existed 
but  the  night :  not  the  night  in  all  the  mystery  of  its 
spiritual  suggestion  ;  not  the  immensity,  the  impenetrable 
wonder,  that  it  was  to  Alicia,  but  simply  the  physical,  de 
licious  night,  with  all  its  coolness  and  quiet.  Robert  was 
not  a  part  of  her  experience.  He  might  have  been  Billy 
or  her  father,  or  he  might  even  not  have  been  there  at  all : 
Pauline's  sensations  would  have  been  precisely  the  same. 
She  was  practically  unconscious  of  his  presence  beyond 
the  trivial  fact  that  his  being  there  saved  her  from  any 
concern  on  the  part  of  her  father  or  any  bothersome  curi 
osity  on  the  part  of  strangers. 

But  with  Robert  the  case  was  quite  reversed.  For  him, 
nothing  existed  but  Pauline.  The  night  was  wholly  casual, 
the  unessential  setting  of  a  drama  so  absorbing  as  to  leave 
no  room  for  scenery  or  stage  directions.  Had  Pauline  been 
a  veritable  coquette,  and  bent  on  winning  Robert  most 
completely  and  in  the  least  possible  time,  she  could  not 
have  chosen  a  better  or  more  effective  method  than  just 
this  silence  in  a  moon -smitten  garden  on  the  banks  of 

119 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Windermere.  In  reality  Robert  was  not  exploring  Pauline 
or  Windermere.  He  was  exploring  the  wonderful  recesses 
in  the  unknown  depths  of  his  own  heart. 

Pauline's  superb  health,  which  showed  even  in  the  moon 
light,  her  commanding  good  looks,  the  beauty  of  her  simple 
dress,  all  took  complete  possession  of  Eobert.  Her  very 
silence  added  to  the  enchantment.  Had  she  spoken,  it 
would  have  been  sensibly  and  to  the  point,  but  the  silence 
allowed  a  spiritual  quality,  a  touch  of  Heaven,  that  her 
talk  could  never  have  given.  Robert's  imagination  had 
not  been  so  well  exploited  as  Donald's.  It  had  been  treated, 
indeed,  rather  as  an  intruder  than  as  a  welcome  guest.  But 
it  was  awakening,  and  just  now  was  very  active.  One  by 
one,  Robert's  heated  imagination  was  investing  Pauline 
with  every  endowment,  with  every  charm,  until  she  stood 
before  him  incomparable,  unique,  a  very  goddess.  Even 
the  dizzy  height  of  her  pedestal  did  not  strike  Robert  as 
unreasonable.  In  the  morning,  in  her  absence,  he  might 
have  seen.  But  not  to-night.  Her  presence,  which  acted 
upon  him  as  the  magnet  does  on  unresisting  iron ;  her 
silence,  which  allowed  him  quite  undisturbed  to  endow  her 
with  every  quality  that  he  most  worshiped ;  the  incon 
stant  moon,  which  seems  bent  upon  evoking  unquiet  tides 
in  the  hearts  of  men  as  well  as  in  the  unstable  sea,  —  all 
joined  their  potencies,  and  this  new  Robert  of  a  month's 
creating  was  madly  in  love.  Could  the  self-conscious  spice 
clerk  of  Doane  Street  have  looked  down  upon  Windermere 
that  night,  he  would  have  gazed  with  open-eyed  astonish 
ment  upon  these  unsuspected  depths  of  feeling.  But  there 
was  no  such  spectator.  Even  the  Puritan  ancestors  were 
absent.  For  once,  Robert  was  wholesomely  and  thoroughly 

120 


ADRIFT 


unconscious  of  himself.  For  it  is  curiously  true  that  in 
that  supreme  tide  of  egotism,  when  love  reaches  its  crest, 
the  human  heart  throws  off  its  littleness,  and  becomes  one 
with  the  object  of  its  desire. 

Had  Robert  been  the  fortunate  owner  of  a  castle  on  the 
far  side  of  the  lake,  had  he  had  a  staunch  boat  and  some 
trusty  retainers  at  command,  he  would  have  carried  off 
Pauline  bodily,  and  claimed  her  by  right  of  possession  for 
his  very  own.  Nor  would  it  have  occurred  to  him  in  his 
present  exalted  mood  to  doubt  that  Pauline,  whatever  her 
maidenly  resistance  might  have  been,  would  have  shared 
his  supreme  emotion,  and  have  gone  with  him  with  joy  in 
her  heart. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  walked  silently  along  the  well- 
groomed  gravel  paths.  They  made  the  appropriate  turns, 
the  necessary  retracements.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  ban 
of  silence,  this  intense,  absorbing  drama  going  on  in  Robert's 
soul  would  have  found  voice,  and  all  the  white  heat  of  it 
would  have  been  poured  into  Pauline's  ears.  But  as  it  was, 
she  heard  nothing,  not  even  with  the  inward  ear  of  the 
spirit,  and  Robert's  emotion,  too  fine  and  too  intense  ever 
quite  to  repeat  itself,  spent  its  force  vainly  like  some  unfelt 
storm  upon  a  shoreless  sea.  And  Pauline,  being,  as  Donald 
had  put  it  to  himself,  "  a  natural  history  girl,"  perceived 
no  drama,  no  flood-tide  of  emotion,  no  spiritual  crisis  in 
their  two  lives.  What  she  saw,  in  so  far  as  she  saw  Robert 
at  all,  was  a  slight,  eager  man,  alive  with  a  strange  vitality 
which  she  did  not  fathom,  and  agreeable  chiefly  because 
he  was  not  disagreeable.  She  caught  no  glint  of  the  in 
dwelling  spirit  holding  out  eager  hands  towards  her  spirit, 
and  ready  to  serve  and  cherish  her  in  this  world  and  the 

121 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


next.  And  so  it  proved  a  passion  in  the  desert,  a  white 
light  to  one  of  them,  but  not  to  the  other ;  an  abiding  light 
to  neither. 

It  was  not  Pauline's  fault.  She  had  been  untouched,  not 
because  she  declined  to  be,  but  for  the  more  fundamental 
reason  that  she  was  wholly  unconscious  that  any  appeal 
had  been  made.  No  intuition,  no  woman's  prescience,  spoke 
to  her  of  deep  emotion.  It  was  quite  the  same  as  if  Robert 
had  been  dreaming  of  stocks  and  bonds,  or  wondering  how 
his  new  evening  suit  would  become  him. 

Nor  was  it  quite  Robert's  fault.  He  had  not  ignored  this 
deep  cry  of  nature,  or  slighted  it,  or  even  put  it  off.  Speech 
had  trembled  on  his  lips.  But  he  had  waited,  in  fine  defer 
ence,  until  Pauline  should  exhaust  her  mood  of  silence. 
Had  she  spoken  a  word,  made  so  much  as  one  exclamation 
of  delight  at  the  beauty  of  the  night,  one  audible  comment, 
however  trivial,  the  flood-gates  would  have  opened,  and 
Robert  would  have  poured  out  his  heart  before  her.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  even  Pauline,  with  all  her  poise,  could 
have  withstood  the  passionate  torrent  of  avowal  which  a 
more  psychical  person,  one  more  sensitive  to  the  voices  of 
the  air,  would  have  felt  impending,  —  could  scarcely  have 
failed  to  feel  impending,  —  and  by  some  adroit  command 
of  the  situation  would  either  have  averted  or  invited.  But 
it  so  chanced  —  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  chance  in  this 
intelligent,  purpose-saturated  universe  of  ours  —  that  Paul 
ine  spoke  no  word,  not  at  least  until  the  others  had  joined 
them,  and  the  situation,  once  so  freighted  with  possibilities, 
flattened  out  into  a  lost  opportunity. 

Shortly  afterwards,  Pauline  went  up  to  bed,  and  this 
evening,  when  fate  had  appeared  to  be  so  wide  awake,  she 

122 


ADRIFT 


remembered  solely  because  the  moon  had  been  at  the  full, 
and  the  air  had  been  so  genial  that  she  had  been  able  to 
stay  out-of-doors  instead  of  being  cooped  up  in  a  stuffy 
drawing-room. 

Robert  was  much  too  excited  to  think  of  sleep.  He 
kept  Stephen  and  Donald  up  until  midnight,  and  not 
until  they  had  all  three  pulled  out  to  the  middle  of  the 
lake,  and  seen  the  night  from  that  superb  vantage-ground, 
would  he  consent  to  go  upstairs. 

Stephen  wondered  for  a  moment  if  anything  had  hap 
pened.  But  when  he  recalled  Pauline's  unmistakable  calm, 
and  the  wholly  conventional  good-night  between  herself 
and  Robert,  he  put  it  down  to  the  general  waking  up 
which  was  manifestly  taking  place  in  the  erstwhile  drab 
little  spice  clerk.  Donald's  insight  extended  no  farther. 
Not  being  minded  to  write  sonnets  to  Pauline  himself,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  any  one  else  should  be  falling 
in  love  with  her. 

Robert  went  to  bed  without  any  consciousness  that  the 
great  moment  had  passed.  To  him  it  seemed  merely  de 
layed.  As  he  grew  calmer,  he  came  to  think  it  fortunate 
that  Pauline  had  not  broken  the  spell  of  silence.  He  knew, 
of  course,  that,  the  spell  once  broken,  he  would  have  poured 
out  all  his  love  in  one  overwhelming  torrent.  Once  more 
away  from  Pauline,  and  able  in  the  long,  sleepless  watches 
of  the  night  to  think  out  the  matter  with  tolerable  clear 
ness,  he  began  for  the  first  time  to  ask  himself  quite  seri 
ously  just  where  Pauline  stood,  and  what  reason  he  could 
have  to  think  that  she  either  cared  for  him,  or  would  even 
come  to  care.  Being  so  honest  about  himself  that  he  was 
almost  dishonest,  he  saw  with  pitiless  clearness  that  he 

123 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


had  very  little  to  offer  a  girl  of  Pauline's  temperament, 
one  who  had  always  had  everything  of  the  best,  and  who, 
in  the  matter  of  lovers  as  well,  had  a  perfect  right  to 
demand  the  best.  In  the  heat  of  his  passion,  Robert 
would  have  dared  everything  since  he  would  have  been 
unconscious  that  he  was  daring  anything.  He  would 
have  felt  that  Pauline  could  not  help  but  respond.  So 
overmastering  an  emotion  could  not  have  left  the  girl 
unmoved. 

But  now  in  the  quiet,  the  flood  in  his  great  emotion 
had  ebbed,  and  he  believed  that  he  saw  things  in  a  truer 
light.  He  persuaded  himself  to  believe  that  it  would  have 
been  mere  madness  to  have  spoken  to  Pauline,  a  prema 
ture  ruining  of  all  his  hopes. 

As  far  as  Robert  could  evolve  any  plan  out  of  the 
present  emotional  chaos,  he  resolved  to  keep  a  very  strong 
hand  on  himself,  to  utter  no  word,  to  suffer  no  look,  to 
permit  no  act,  that  could  be  construed,  even  by  the  judi 
cially  minded  Stephen,  to  be  an  approach  to  wooing 
Pauline.  He  would  keep  himself  as  near  Pauline  as  pos 
sible,  he  would  stand  ready  to  serve,  he  would  fall  in  with 
every  mood,  —  in  a  word,  he  would  wait.  And  some  day, 
when  the  moment  seemed  ripe,  he  would  speak  out.  Mean 
while  Pauline  was  not  to  know.  She  was  not  to  be  both 
ered  with  having  to  think  of  him  as  a  lover.  Perhaps 
the  tragedy  in  this  little  rehearsal  was  in  this  last  touch. 
Robert  need  not  have  given  himself  all  this  constructive 
work.  He  might  have  made  his  own  role  much  less  exact 
ing  and  less  subtle.  It  would  have  been  equally  effective. 
The  last  thing  that  Pauline  temperamentally  could  do 
was  just  this,  to  read  the  inner  meaning  in  another  soul. 

124 


ADRIFT 


Robert  need  not  have  spun  these  gossamer  webs  for  her 
protection.  In  Pauline  herself  were  adequate  curtains  of 
more  solid  tissue.  There  was  something  deeply  pathetic  in 
Robert's  purpose  to  protect  Pauline  from  a  situation  which 
did  not  exist,  and  which,  without  some  radical  change  in 
the  girl's  make-up,  could  never  arise. 

It  was  almost  morning  when  Robert  finally  fell  asleep. 
He  slept  so  late  that  when,  at  last,  he  went  downstairs, 
the  others  had  breakfasted  and  were  taking  a  short  row 
on  the  lake. 

The  stay  at  Bowness  lasted  for  a  week.  As  the  whole 
excursion,  so  far  as  the  Marshalls  were  concerned,  was 
primarily  an  outing  for  Billy  before  his  withdrawal  from 
general  society  into  the  instructive  atmosphere  of  Abbots- 
holme,  he  was  allowed  to  shape  the  general  plans.  No 
better  cicerone  could  have  been  found,  for  Billy,  being 
an  extremely  active  small  person,  elected  to  visit  all  the 
places  of  interest,  major  and  minor,  within  a  day's  jour 
ney  of  Bowness.  It  is  doubtful  whether  even  American 
tourists  ever  saw  so  much  of  the  Lake  District  before 
within  the  same  space  of  time.  The  weather  aided  and 
abetted  Billy's  laudable  desire  to  see  everything.  Seldom 
had  such  glorious  weather  been  known.  Instead  of  the 
disheartening  downpour  which  commonly  makes  life  on 
Windermere  a  scarcely  intermittent  shower-bath,  the  sun 
graciously  shone  on  five  out  of  the  seven  days,  and  even 
on  the  dull  days  the  showers  were  far  enough  apart  not 
to  interfere  seriously  with  more  important  human  under 
takings.  Local  comment  on  the  weather  threatened,  how 
ever,  to  become  almost  as  much  of  a  nuisance  as  rain  itself. 
The  Americans,  accustomed  to  accept  good  weather  as 

125 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


their  proper  share  and  portion,  and  bad  weather  as  an 
unmannerly  interruption,  basked  in  the  phenomenal  sun 
shine  as  a  matter  of  pure  right ;  but  not  so  the  lake- 
dwellers.  All,  with  one  accord,  —  boatmen,  coach-drivers, 
innkeepers,  gentry,  and  British  tourists,  —  were  so  struck 
with  the  weather  that  they  could  talk  of  nothing  else,  and 
quite  forgot  to  look  at  the  tenderly  beautiful  scenery 
which  all  this  flood  of  sunshine  so  charmingly  revealed. 

The  effect  of  the  Lake  District  upon  our  six  friends 
was  characteristic  in  the  extreme.  To  Stephen  and  Mr. 
Marshall  the  lakes,  hills,  running  waters,  mountains,  crags, 
fells,  and  vales  were  not  individual  and  distinct  elements 
of  pleasure.  Rather,  they  all  fused  into  one  shifting  scene, 
pleasant  enough  in  its  way,  but  really  of  quite  secondary 
importance,  and  valuable  chiefly  as  an  agreeable  setting 
for  more  interesting  human  affairs,  —  not  so  much  human 
romances  and  passions  as  land  tenures  and  economic 
achievements.  To  Donald  and  therefore  by  reflection  to 
Billy,  whose  boyish  materialism  was  sometimes  transfigured 
by  a  touch  of  imagination  and  fancy  into  something  more 
fluid,  the  whole  country-side  was  holy  ground ;  holy  not 
only  because  of  its  own  beauty  and  inherent,  unescapable 
poetry,  but  holy  because  on  this  very  ground  the  poets 
had  walked  among  men.  Donald  tiptoed  about,  his  hat  in 
his  hand,  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  his  shoes  from  off 
his  feet.  He  had  an  unaccountable  way  of  standing  per 
fectly  still  for  several  minutes,  seeing  the  things  that  only 
poets  can  see,  and  making  mental  photographs  that  were 
afterwards  to  march  in  stately  procession  through  the 
chambers  of  his  soul  as  he  read  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth. 
At  other  times,  Donald  would  drop  on  his  knees,  and  quite 

126 


ADRIFT 


forget  the  rest  of  the  party  until  the  particular  mood  was 
satisfied. 

Billy,  awed  by  Donald's  reverence,  came  to  the  private 
conclusion  that  poets  were  not  such  rum  fellows  after  all, 
and  even  determined  to  dip  into  several  whose  very  names 
had  been  made  obnoxious  to  him  by  his  last  English  teacher. 
But  this  good  resolution  not  oxen  themselves  could  have 
dragged  out  of  him. 

Upon  Pauline  and  Robert,  the  magic  of  this  English 
paradise  acted  with  what  they  supposed  to  be  precisely  the 
same  effect,  but  in  reality  with  effects  that  were  wholly 
dissimilar.  Such  a  mistake,  common  enough  to  all  of  us, 
was  inevitable  in  their  case.  Pauline,  quite  blind  to  the 
more  sensitive  and  psychic  side  of  Robert's  nature,  sup 
posed  that  he  and  all  the  rest  of  the  party,  with  the  possi 
ble  exception  of  Donald,  experienced  precisely  what  she 
experienced,  —  a  delightful  accession  of  physical  enthusi 
asm,  due  to  the  big  beauty  of  surrounding  nature,  the  in 
toxicating  air,  the  constant  and  healthful  exercise.  For  the 
world  of  things,  the  large  aspects  of  nature,  —  mountains, 
sky,  sea,  —  she  had  an  almost  passionate  attachment.  For 
the  world  of  persons,  she  had  a  sound  instinct  of  gregari- 
ousness,  but  except  for  Billy  and  her  father,  no  personal 
feeling  warmer  than  a  friendly  indifference.  She  liked  our 
three  young  friends  collectively  much  better  than  she  did 
individually.  As  Pauline  looked  out  upon  the  world  of 
persons,  she  had  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  of  them  were  not  so  well-conditioned  as 
she  was.  It  was  a  purely  natural  history  judgment,  and 
involved  no  sense  of  self-righteousness,  but  it  did  give  to 
her  general  attitude  its  one  sophistication,  a  touch  of  con- 

127 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


tempt  for  persons  smaller  and  less  adequate  than  herself. 
It  was  also  at  the  root  of  her  one  absorbing  sentiment, 
her  worship  of  bigness.  In  spite  of  its  physical  vastness,  it 
was  really  a  limited  world  in  which  Pauline  lived,  a  world 
which  seemed  to  present  the  whole  of  truth,  nakedly 
and  without  evasions,  but  which  in  reality  offered  only  a 
windy,  uninhabited  solitude. 

And  yet  Pauline  herself  was  far  from  being  the  unin 
teresting  creature  that  Donald  in  his  over-hasty  judg 
ment  had  soon  put  her  down  to  be.  She  was  not  a  person 
for  a  discriminating,  highly-sensitive  poet  like  himself  to 
write  sonnets  to,  but  her  point  of  view,  as  far  as  it  went, 
was  distinctly  wholesome.  And  then  always  there  was  the 
possibility  —  which  no  poet  should  lose  sight  of  —  that 
some  great  day  the  divine  fire  might  descend  and,  touch 
ing  the  sleeping  soul,  rouse  it  into  a  magnificent  activity, 
the  more  magnificent,  perhaps,  for  reason  of  its  long,  re 
freshing  sleep.  That  Robert  should  have  believed  that  in 
the  present  Pauline  he  had  already  found  a  kindred  soul 
was  absurd,  if  absurd  at  all,  only  in  the  most  objective  way. 
The  blindest  and  most  inexperienced  of  lovers,  Robert 
was  worshiping  a  being  as  unlike  the  real  Pauline  in  all 
essential  qualities  as  the  self  he  wanted  to  be  was  unlike 
the  self  he  was.  The  initial  attraction  had  been  physical. 
In  spite  of  the  fineness  of  Robert's  own  nature,  he  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  have  explored  Pauline's  soul  and  fallen 
in  love  with  that,  when  her  soul,  being  still  in  the  hall  of 
sleep,  was  not  yet  open  to  exploration.  Nor  could  he  quite 
be  said  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  body.  It  was  rather 
her  wholesomeness,  her  bigness,  her  vitality.  Robert's 
own  vitality  was  constitutionally  low.  In  the  first  flush  of 

128 


ADRIFT 


returning  health  he  had  come  to  look  upon  vitality  as 
worshipful.  Pauline  seemed  the  very  embodiment  of  it. 
Robert's  own  daily  round  had  been  petty  and  narrow.  The 
sweep  of  Pauline's  days  seemed  to  him  magnificent.  He 
had  been  dimly  conscious  in  his  intercourse  with  Stephen 
and  Donald  that  somehow  he  himself  had  missed  life  and 
had  been  putting  up  with  a  poor  substitute.  How  irrevo 
cable  this  missing  had  been,  he  could  not,  happily  for  his 
own  courage,  quite  realize.  He  lightly  put  aside  his  thirty- 
four  years  and  believed  that  all  things  were  still  possible. 
His  week  on  the  Republic  had  taught  him  new  values. 
Pauline,  apparently,  had  always  known  them,  had  always 
possessed  them,  had  always  been  wholesome  and  big  and 
vital. 

To  Robert,  with  his  aroused  feelings  and  new  standards, 
Pauline  seemed  the  incarnation  of  the  larger  life.  He  could 
no  more  help  loving  her  than  he  could  escape  the  hundred 
and  one  reactions  which  grew  out  of  the  whole  wonderful 
experience  that  had  come  to  him  since  the  break  with  his 
old  life. 

The  feeling  for  Pauline  once  aroused,  it  was  inevitable 
that  Robert,  idealist  and  dreamer  as  well  as  coffee  and 
spice  clerk,  should  build  up  a  fictitious  Pauline,  not  only 
possessed  of  the  wholesomeness  and  bigness  and  vitality 
which  he  knew  himself  to  be  deficient  in,  but  also  of  those 
sensibilities  of  the  spirit  which  through  inheritance  and 
suffering  were  indubitably  his,  and  of  all  those  idealities 
of  the  soul  which,  as  yet,  he  could  only  aspire  to. 

In  reality,  Robert  was  less  of  a  type  than  any  of  the 
party,  less  even  than  Donald  or  Billy.  For  Robert  the 
change  of  environment  had  been  so  extreme  as  to  be  almost 

129 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


dislocating.  The  old  set  of  ideas  and  habits  had  a  perma 
nence  not  easily  disturbed.  They  had  been  growing  for 
thirty-four  years.  The  new  set  of  ideas  and  habits  was 
not  yet  firmly  established.  To  Robert,  therefore,  life  was 
no  easy  passing  of  the  days.  It  was  rather  a  hand-to-hand 
fight,  a  constant  struggle  between  conflicting  ideals.  One 
moment  he  was  a  conservative,  —  the  next,  a  radical.  He 
would  have  seemed,  from  any  worldly  point  of  view,  both 
uncertain  and  inconsistent.  When  he  was  with  his  friends, 
he  very  genuinely  shared  the  broad  worldliness  of  Mr. 
Marshall,  the  shrewd  common-sense  of  Stephen,  the  poetic 
idealism  of  Donald,  the  ingenuousness  of  Billy,  even,  in  a 
measure,  the  physical  bigness  of  Pauline.  When  he  was 
alone,  these  qualities  became  recollections  and  had  to  be 
compounded  with  his  own  past. 

Outwardly,  the  week  was  full  of  movement  and  adven 
ture.  Each  day  saw  some  enterprise  undertaken  and 
accomplished.  Inwardly,  the  week  brought  no  special 
adventure  to  the  Marshalls,  except  that  Billy,  through  his 
devotion  to  Donald,  was  learning  several  things.  And  it 
brought  none,  perhaps,  to  the  well-poised  Stephen.  But 
it  brought  many  adventures  to  Donald  and  Robert.  Don 
ald's  changes,  however,  were  all  in  one  line,  a  deepening 
of  the  poetic  faculty,  and  a  most  wholesome  increase  in 
poetic  sincerity.  To  Robert  the  changes  came  in  many 
lines,  and  it  was  unavoidably  a  week  of  tumult. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  the  last  night  at  Bowness 
should  be  spent  on  the  lake.  Billy  was  allowed  to  sit  up 
until  a  quite  unreasonable  hour,  for  the  moon  had  fallen 
into  the  bad  habit  of  rising  late.  Three  small  boats  car 
ried  the  party,  the  division  being  into  the  usual  pairs : 

130 


ADRIFT 


Mr.  Marshall  and  Stephen,  Billy  and  Donald,  Pauline 
and  Robert.  By  common  consent  the  boats  kept  pretty 
close  together.  When  they  got  halfway  up  to  Amble- 
side,  oars  were  put  aside  and  the  boats  allowed  simply 
to  drift.  Gradually  the  talk  fell  off,  even  Billy  growing 
less  garrulous,  until  all  were  silent,  lost  in  the  wonder 
and  beauty  of  the  night.  Presently  Donald  began  to  sing. 
It  was  a  pleasant  tenor  voice,  of  no  great  power.  He 
chose  that  beautiful  Catholic  hymn  of  adoration,  "  Ave, 
Regina  Coelorum."  The  last  cadences  trailed  off  into 
silence.  After  an  interval  Stephen  struck  up  in  his  con 
versational  bass  voice  the  one  song  in  his  repertoire, 
"  Fair  Harvard."  Robert  had  110  associations  with  either 
hymn  or  song,  but  he  felt  vaguely  that  there  was  a  large 
gap  between  them.  He  had  no  accomplishments  of  his 
own,  and  even  envied  Stephen  his  modest  musical  part. 
Robert  would  have  given  anything  to  have  been  able  to 
respond,  and  especially  if  he  could  have  chosen  something 
midway  between  the  "  Ave "  and  the  college  song.  It 
was  plainly  incumbent  upon  his  own  boat  to  contribute 
something.  In  view  of  his  own  disability,  he  asked  Pauline 
if  she  could  not  sing  them  a  song.  He  had  never  heard 
her  sing,  but  it  seemed  quite  improbable  that  such  a 
superb  throat  and  such  strong  lungs  should  not  consti 
tute  a  perfect  musical  instrument.  Pauline's  voice  was 
contralto,  and  though  not  particularly  cultivated,  rang 
out  strong  and  true.  She  chose  "  Way  down  upon  the 
Suwanee  River."  It  seemed  to  Robert  quite  the  desira 
ble  mean  between  the  other  selections,  and  struck  him 
anew  with  the  fine  suitableness  of  all  that  Pauline  did. 
When  the  song  died  away,  however,  he  was  conscious  that 

131 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


the  ensuing  silence  was  not  so  full  and  rich  as  the  tender 
silence  that  followed  upon  the  "  Ave,  Regina  Coelorum." 
It  was  the  faintest  of  passing  impressions,  but  strong 
enough  to  make  Robert  feel  that  in  some  subtle  way  he 
had  not  been  quite  loyal  to  Pauline. 

Pauline  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  skiff  wrapped  up  some 
what  luxuriously  in  her  Macgregor,  the  very  picture  of 
comfortable  contentment.  Robert  studied  her  face  intently. 
This  was  the  more  possible  since  Pauline's  gaze,  though 
it  never  avoided  Robert,  never  quite  included  him.  The 
moon  had  been  for  some  time  under  a  thin  veil  of  cloud, 
but  now  the  cloud  passed  on,  and  Pauline's  face  stood  out 
strong  and  distinct  in  the  white  moonlight.  It  was  a  noble 
face,  commanding  in  its  high  good  looks.  Robert  watched 
it  with  a  longing  that  had  come  to  be  the  sharpest  pain.  He 
missed  something  in  the  face,  and  what  he  missed  was  the 
least  trace  of  emotion.  He  had  never  been  able  personally 
to  call  forth  any,  but  he  had  put  this  down  to  his  own 
unworthiness,  his  own  lack  of  power  to  please  so  radiant 
a  creature.  To-night  he  missed  it  in  a  more  impersonal 
way.  Its  absence  struck  him  with  the  same  subtle  sense 
of  regret  that  he  had  felt  in  the  vacant  silence  that 
followed  Pauline's  song.  Just  then  Pauline's  gaze  hap 
pened  to  fall  upon  Robert.  For  one  beautiful  moment  a 
charming  smile  illuminated  her  face,  and  Robert  was 
again  her  unquestioning  slave. 

Presently  the  oars  were  resumed,  and  with  more  or  less 
intermittent  and  rather  drowsy  talk,  the  little  flotilla 
made  its  way  back  to  the  pier.  There  were  no  tender 
good-nights,  save  on  the  part  of  Billy,  who  put  up  a  sleepy 
but  plaintive  wail  that  his  last  night  of  freedom  had  been 

132 


ADRIFT 


spent,  and  that  Donald  was  going  to  Berlin,  while  he, 
Billy  the  desolate,  was  to  take  himself  to  Abbotsholme. 

On  the  following  morning  the  little  party  broke  in  two: 
Mr.  Marshall  and  Pauline,  with  the  tearful  Billy,  turning 
southward  to  the  land  of  schools,  while  our  three  young 
friends  journeyed  over  Kirkstone  Pass  to  Penrith  and 
Carlisle.  Robert  got  through  the  parting  more  creditably 
than  he  anticipated.  For  one  thing,  he  had  the  unfailing 
hopefulness  of  all  young  lovers,  a  hopefulness  further 
strengthened  by  his  sense  of  unimpaired  loyalty ;  and  for 
another  thing,  Pauline  had  asked  him  to  look  them  up  in 
Paris.  She  and  her  father  would  be  there  by  the  latter 
part  of  October,  and  would  be  registered  at  Morgan's.  In 
spite  of  all  this  brave  show,  however,  Robert  was  a  mani 
festly  poor  companion  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  saw 
little  of  the  beauties  of  the  Pass  or  even  of  Ullswater. 
He  woke  up  from  time  to  time  to  such  insistent  facts  as 
stage-coaches,  steamboats,  luncheons,  and  railway  car 
riages,  but  afterwards  he  could  give  but  a  lame  account 
of  the  whole  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
AT  YORK  MINSTER 

SOME  three  weeks  later,  that  is  to  say  about  the  middle 
of  October,  our  three  young  friends  found  themselves  at 
York.  They  had  done  Carlisle,  Glasgow,  Loch  Lomond, 
and  the  Trossachs.  They  had  been  at  Edinburgh  and  Ab- 
botsford.  They  had  seen  Melrose  and  Durham.  Just  now 
they  were  bent  on  more  cathedrals  en  route  to  the  univer 
sity  towns  and  London.  Robert,  at  least,  considered  him 
self  a  much-traveled  person.  His  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter 
would  have  been  greatly  edified,  could  she  have  heard  him 
discuss  the  relative  merits  of  English  and  Scottish  lakes, 
or  Welsh  and  Scottish  mountains.  She  would  have  judged 
him  to  have  spent  his  time  and  money  to  excellent  ad 
vantage,  could  she  have  listened  to  his  many  discourses  on 
cathedral  architecture  and  the  distinctive  features  of  Nor 
man,  Early  English,  Decorated  Gothic,  and  Perpendicular. 
Not  having  the  proper  key,  it  might  have  puzzled  Miss 
Pendexter  to  know  why  Robert  gave  such  exaggerated 
preference  to  Welsh  mountains  and  English  lakes  over 
their  Scottish  counterparts,  or  why  he  went  in  for  church 
architecture  with  a  detail  that  came  dangerously  near  to 
being  tiresome.  Still  lacking  the  proper  key,  she  could  not 
guess  that  this  serious  interest  in  architecture  had  started 
out  as  the  too  transparent  ruse  by  which  Robert  tried  to 
beguile  his  thoughts  from  traveling  in  a  well-worn  and 
profitless  circle.  It  was  .a  ruse,  however,  which  was  trans 
parent  only  to  himself.  It  quite  imposed  upon  Stephen  and 

134 


AT  YORK   MINSTER 


Donald,  who  concluded  in  a  brief  paragraph  of  confidential 
talk  that  Robert  had  practically  forgotten  Pauline.  Ste 
phen  even  went  a  little  further,  and  allowed  himself  to 
wonder  whether  this  apparently  unromantic  Mr.  Pendexter 
really  carried  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  to  be  given  away 
and  taken  back  on  surprisingly  short  notice. 

When  architecture  threatened  to  become  exhausted, 
and  Stephen  and  Donald  had  more  than  once  cried  him 
mercy,  Robert  fell  back  upon  history,  and  fairly  bristled 
with  names  and  dates  and  statistics.  He  might  be  said  to 
have  become  bookkeeper  to  Chronos,  and  to  have  brought 
to  the  task  the  same  unusual  accuracy  that  had  made  him 
so  valuable  to  Messrs.  Watson  and  Reed.  Robert's  appar 
ent  immersion  in  objective  interests  and  his  increased 
readiness  to  talk  on  any  and  every  subject  rather  puzzled 
Stephen.  In  the  end  he  put  it  down  as  merely  another 
phase  in  Robert's  amazing  progress,  and  came  quite  to 
admire  the  little  ex-clerk  for  his  accuracy  and  dependable- 
ness.  The  intimacy  between  the  two  men  had  been  some 
what  interrupted  by  what  Stephen  now  called  the  Pauline 
episode,  but  it  had  not  only  been  resumed,  but  had  grown 
apace  during  the  three  weeks  that  separated  them  from 
that  interruption.  Donald's  affections  were  very  vague  and 
general  in  their  character.  In  spite  of  the  sonnet  habit, 
they  were  essentially  impersonal.  He  loved  moods  and 
qualities.  If  he  conceived  them  to  be  even  momentary 
embodiments  of  his  pet  abstractions,  he  could  apostrophize 
persons  and  places  with  a  passion  which  was  more  than 
likely  to  be  misleading  to  less  imaginative  persons.  He  re 
ceived  almost  daily  letters  from  the  devoted  Billy,  but 
easily  satisfied  himself  by  sending  an  occasional  picture 

135 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


postal  in  return.  The  friendship  between  Donald  and 
Stephen  had  reached  a  quiet  equilibrium,  not  likely  to  be 
disturbed  on  either  side,  but  not  likely  to  increase  in 
any  marked  degree.  Between  Stephen  and  Robert,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  ties  were  more  human  and  personal.  They 
grew  so  quietly  and  naturally  that  both  men  had  almost 
ceased  to  remark  the  growth.  Occasional  incidents  and 
insights  proved  illuminating,  however,  and  gave  them 
both  a  pleasant  sense  of  new-found  wealth. 

And  now  they  had  reached  York. 

The  trip  had  been  somewhat  more  expensive  than  they 
anticipated,  for  English  hotels  contrive  to  give  much  less 
for  the  money  in  both  comfort  and  beauty  than  similar 
establishments  on  the  Continent.  Donald  had  so  far 
emerged  from  poetry  as  to  recognize  the  fact  that  his  letter 
of  credit  was  dripping  away  like  melted  tallow  from  a 
lighted  candle.  He  selected  York  as  the  scene  of  one  of 
those  spasmodic  efforts  after  economy  which,  in  the  conduct 
of  his  affairs,  came  pretty  regularly  on  top  of  some  com 
parative  extravagance.  The  friends  had  long  since  given 
up  first-class  on  the  railway,  and  contented  themselves 
with  the  more  limited  comfort  and  better  company  of  the 
third-class.  It  was  Stephen  who  inaugurated  this  reform. 
His  quick  common-sense  detected  the  fact  that  they  were 
missing  half  the  fun  and  profit  of  travel,  since  the  first- 
class  carriages  offered  either  no  company  at  all,  or  else 
either  over-rich  Americans  or  phlegmatic  British  tourists, 
who  seemed  to  travel  in  perpetual  fear  that  they  might 
be  spoken  to.  As  all  three  men  were  fond  of  walking,  cab 
hire  reduced  itself  to  an  insignificant  figure.  Their  one 
undeniable  extravagance  had  been  in  the  matter  of  hotels. 

136 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


With  his  ingrained  instinct  for  economy,  Robert,  the  one 
relatively  rich  man  of  the  three,  would  have  been  quite 
willing  to  frequent  more  modest  inns.  But  Stephen  and 
Donald  had  stuck  out  for  the  very  best  hotels,  Stephen 
on  the  frank  ground  that  he  liked  comfort,  and  Donald 
on  the  less  complimentary  ground  that  the  best  were  poor 
enough.  As  the  hotel  bills  seemed  to  be  the  one  reducible 
item  of  expense,  Donald  surprised  the  others  by  proposing 
that  at  York  they  should  turn  their  backs  upon  the  stalled 
ox  and  take  to  dinners  of  herbs.  Robert,  to  his  own  amaze 
ment,  and  even  alarm,  found  when  it  came  to  the  point 
that  he  was  quite  indifferent.  He  felt  reproachfully  that 
he  was  growing  very  self-indulgent  and  worldly.  In  real 
ity,  the  sum  total  of  his  expenses  was  so  well  within  his 
income  that  a  few  shillings  more  or  less,  or  even  a  few 
pounds,  made  no  perceptible  difference.  He  tried  rather 
unsuccessfully  to  get  up  some  enthusiasm  for  Donald's 
proposed  economic  reform,  and  consented  to  help  in  select 
ing  a  delectable  spot  from  the  menagerie  of  names  offered 
by  Baedeker.  Stephen  promised  submission,  but  resolutely 
declined  any  more  active  part  in  the  conspiracy.  After 
some  discussion  over  the  probable  merits  of  the  various 
animals,  Donald  and  Robert  hit  upon  the  Stag  as  an  inn 
that  seemed  in  the  guide-book  account  of  it  to  be  suffi 
ciently  modest,  and  when  they  got  there,  proved  to  be  more 
modest  than  enough.  Rather  half-heartedly  our  three 
young  friends  filed  into  the  narrow  hallway,  and  deposited 
their  suit-cases  in  an  orderly  row  upon  a  tesselated  pave 
ment  whose  grandeur  had  been  for  some  time  a  stranger 
to  such  plebeian  accomplices  as  soap  and  water. 

A  jaunty  gentleman  in  expansive  but  not  immaculate 
137 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


linen  approached  them  with  a  brave  show  of  gayety  that 
deceived  no  one,  not  even  himself,  and  inquired  what  line 
they  were  in. 

Stephen  replied  grimly  that  he  hoped  they  were  in  the 
line  of  promotion,  while  the  other  two  men  stared  uncom- 
prehendingly. 

"  Something  genteel,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  proprietor. 
"  Very  genteel.  Jewelry  perhaps  ?  or  notions  ?  or  cigars?" 

"  Lord,  no,"  answered  Stephen.  "  We  're  not  drum 
mers.  We  deal  in  ideas,  mostly." 

"  Ah,  professionals,"  said  the  proprietor.  "  I  see.  Go 
in  for  tragedy  or  comedy  ?  " 

"Just  now,"  answered  Stephen,  in  his  most  judicial 
manner,  "  we  are  going  in  for  tragedy !  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  murmured  the  proprietor.  "  Honored  to 
have  you  stop  with  us.  Our  gents  is  mostly  in  a  commer 
cial  way.  Honored  to  have  your  names  in  our  register- 
book." 

Donald  and  Robert,  not  being  worldly  minded,  got  out 
their  fountain-pens,  and  were  for  obliging  this  urbane  per 
sonage  without  further  delay ;  but  Stephen,  the  cautious 
and  prudential,  was  bent  on  first  seeing  the  rooms. 

With  many  apologies  for  taking  such  distinguished 
gentlemen  up  so  many  nights  of  stairs,  the  proprietor 
mounted  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  after  several  twists 
and  turns  in  the  narrow  corridors,  threw  open  the  door  of 
a  curious  bedroom.  It  was  the  last  room  left,  he  urged, 
but  would  doubtless  make  the  gentlemen  very  comfortable. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  something  of  a  feat  for  them 
all  to  crowd  in  and  climb  around  the  encumbering  furni 
ture.  In  the  remote,  hall-like  distance  was  one  window,  a 

138 


AT   YORK   MINSTER 


magnified  porthole,  which  punctured  the  ill-devised  man 
sard  at  such  height  that  not  even  Donald  could  see  out  of 
it.  Two  beds  stood  at  right  angles  to  the  walls,  and  cut 
the  room  up  into  a  series  of  narrow  alley-ways.  Over  one 
of  the  beds,  a  particularly  frowsy-looking  bed  that  sug 
gested  urgent  need  of  fresh  linen,  hung  a  worked  motto  in 
a  black  walnut  frame.  The  variegated  worsteds  used  in  its 
manufacture  made  it  difficult  to  decipher,  but  after  some 
effort  Stephen  read  in  a  voice  saturated  with  adverse 
comment,  —  Set  your  Hearts  on  Things  Above.  Stephen 
looked  at  the  motto  and  then  once  more  at  the  bed.  He 
nodded  his  head  judicially,  and,  followed  by  the  others, 
made  straight  for  the  door.  The  bewildered  proprietor  put 
down  the  conduct  of  his  guests  to  the  vagaries  of  profes 
sionals.  His  surprise  deepened  when  at  last  downstairs,  on 
the  tesselated  pavement  once  more,  each  man  grabbed  his 
suit-case  and  made  for  the  street  door.  It  was  only  after 
the  last  man  had  muttered  a  hasty  "  Good-evening,"  that 
the  poor  proprietor  realized  that  his  guests  were  not  his 
guests. 

Once  on  the  street  again,  Stephen  magnanimously  of 
fered  to  take  charge  of  the  party  and  conduct  them  to  the 
abodes  of  decency  and  comfort.  Robert  readily  assented, 
for  the  thought  of  sleeping  in  such  a  room  as  they  had 
just  left  filled  him  with  dismay.  Donald  was  equally  ready, 
having  reached  a  rapid  determination  to  spend  less  time  in 
Europe,  if  need  be,  rather  than  practice  so  uncomfortable 
a  virtue  as  economy. 

A  shabby  cab  having  made  its  appearance,  the  three 
men  bundled  into  it.  Stephen  chose  from  the  other  end  of 
the  hotel  list.  The  cabman  shared  the  proprietor's  doubts 

139 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


as  to  their  exact  social  status,  but  the  hotel  once  named, 
he  felt  reassured,  and  promptly  doubled  the  fare.  Stephen 
made  use  of  the  drive  and  his  companions'  present  frame 
of  mind  to  let  fall  some  instructive  remarks  on  true  and 
false  economy.  The  sentiment  of  the  party  was  too  unani 
mous  to  allow  any  discussion. 

"  I  will  now  hold  a  little  observation  class,"  cried  Ste 
phen,  gayly.  "  Who  can  tell  me,  in  cabby's  own  words,  the 
name  of  the  hotel  to  which  we  are  now  going?  " 

"  I  can,"  Donald  answered.  "  We  'rre  goin'  to  tha 
Count-ee  and  Sty-shun  Hote-el,  Sor !  " 

"  Good  ear,"  said  Stephen ;  "  and  when  we  get  there, 
my  children,  our  little  essay  in  economy  will  have  cost 
us  one  hour  and  a  half  of  precious  daylight,  plus  cab 
hire." 

"  Let 's  change  the  subject,"  suggested  Donald. 

Just  how  the  County  and  Station  Hotel  would  have 
struck  our  three  young  friends  had  they  gone  there  at 
once,  it  were  better  not  to  ask,  for  in  reality  it  is  early 
Victorian  in  its  ugliness ;  but  now,  by  contrast  with  tes- 
selated  pavements  and  worsted  mottoes,  it  seemed  the 
height  of  comfort  and  elegance.  It  was  with  a  genuine 
and  hearty  sigh  of  relief  that  the  friends  settled  down  in 
their  pleasant  apartments  and  let  the  week  slip  into  the 
past.  As  yet  they  had  seen  nothing  of  the  Minster,  for 
the  Stag  excursion  had  stolen  the  scant  remaining  day 
light,  a  fact  which  Donald  did  not  fail  to  put  down  on 
the  rapidly  growing  score  against  economy. 

Robert  meant  to  be  up  early  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
Minster  before  breakfast,  but  this  laudable  intention  evap 
orated  during  the  night,  and  he  found  himself  getting  up 

140 


AT   YORK   MINSTER 


when  the  others  did,  and  very  contentedly  sharing  their 
Sunday  morning  breakfast  well  on  towards  ten  o'clock. 

The  dining-room  of  the  County  and  Station  Hotel  means 
to  be  comfortable,  and  succeeds  in  being  ugly.  Our  three 
young  friends  were  given  a  small,  round  table  to  them 
selves,  so  near  the  centre  of  the  room  that  it  seemed  to 
them  that  the  arriving  and  departing  breakf  asters  all  circled 
about  them  and  invited  observation.  To  Robert  the  scene 
was  full  of  interest,  particularly  as  many  of  the  guests 
were  evidently  members  of  the  middle  and  upper  classes. 
He  found  himself  watching  each  group  as  it  entered  the 
room  and  swept  past  him  to  the  most  remote  corner  avail 
able.  Each  group  was  different  and  yet  astonishingly  the 
same.  It  was  made  up  of  individuals  solidly  if  not  taste 
fully  dressed,  manifestly  well  tubbed,  with  high  color  and 
passive  faces,  breathing  every  virtue  except  graciousness. 
They  all  treated  the  servants  as  they  did  the  furniture, 
only  with  less  consideration,  since  they  had  to  adapt  them 
selves,  however  unwillingly,  to  the  furniture,  while  they 
expected  the  servants  to  be  constantly  adapting  themselves 
to  them.  Robert  watched  them,  quite  fascinated  by  the 
different  point  of  view  it  all  indicated. 

Presently  a  stout,  choleric-looking  gentleman  entered 
the  room  followed  by  a  timid  wife  and  four  stolid-looking 
children  of  assorted  sizes.  The  choleric  gentleman  headed 
the  procession,  and  soon  out-distanced  the  timid  wife  and 
the  stolid  children,  now  arranged  in  order  of  size,  and 
presumably  of  age.  When  he  reached  the  table  evidently 
reserved  for  him,  he  sat  down  in  the  most  desirable  place 
and  arranged  the  table  furniture  to  suit  him.  When  the 
timid  wife  approached,  he  looked  up  at  her  over  his  shoul- 

141 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


der  in  such  a  contemptuous  way  that  Robert  felt  sorry  for 
the  poor  lady.  The  look  seemed  to  say,  "  You  here  ?  You 
hungry?  You  want  something  to  eat?  Well,  upon  my 
soul,  you  don't  deserve  it ! "  The  lady  sat  down  timidly 
and  apologetically,  and  the  four  children  slipped  into  their 
places  with  the  air  of  creatures  trying  hard  to  efface 
themselves,  but  not  at  all  sure  of  their  success. 

Robert  withdrew  his  gaze  and  caught  Donald's  eye  com 
ing  home  from  the  same  little  tragedy. 

"  He  7s  a  brute! "  Donald  exclaimed  warmly.  "  I'd  like 
to  lick  him  here  and  now." 

"  Don't  believe  you  could,"  observed  Stephen,  laconi 
cally,  "  unless  you  tired  him  out,  and  he  lost  his  wind. 
He  'd  puff  hard,  all  right." 

"  Well,  he  deserves  a  good  licking,"  Donald  answered ; 
"  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  he  's  not  the  only  one.  I  '11  give 
a  chromo  to  either  one  of  you,  if  you  can  ever  show  me 
an  Englishman  who  's  polite  to  his  wife  !  " 

"  Who  '11  judge?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"  You  may,  lover  of  English  laws  and  customs,  reader 
of  the  '  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors,'  —  you  may  judge 
yourself.  But  you  '11  not  find  a  single,  solitary  one." 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Stephen.  "  That 's  rather  sweeping. 
They  're  doubtless  very  nice  to  their  wives  in  private." 

"  In  private  !  "  Donald  repeated  indignantly.  "  Why 
not  in  public  also  ?  " 

"  They  're  shy  of  showing  any  feeling  when  other  people 
are  looking  on." 

"  By  all  that 's  great !  "  ejaculated  Donald.  "  That  puf 
fing,  red-faced  brute  shy  !  That 's  too  delicious.  Too  mod 
est  to  show  his  manners  in  public  lest  they  be  scored  up 

142 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


to  his  credit,  but  in  private,  —  oh,  my  soul,  —  so  delight 
ful  and  winsome  that  the  angels  look  on  with  bated  breath ! 
Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  the  wife  and  kids  don't  look  it." 

"  Perhaps  he 's  an  exception,"  Robert  suggested  chari 
tably.  "  We  should  n't  want  Americans  to  be  judged  by 
some  of  the  people  you  could  see  at  the  Somerset  or  the 
Touraine,  or  even  over  here." 

"  Right  you  are,  little  Pen,"  cried  Stephen.  "  That 's 
sense  and  reason.  The  poet 's  on  a  rampage,  and  has  a 
favorite  text  of  his,  —  the  eccentricities  of  our  British 
cousins." 

"  All  the  same,"  replied  Donald,  imperturbably,  "  I  '11 
give  a  chromo  to  either  of  you,  if  you  can  ever  show  me 
an  Englishman  who  is  polite  to  his  wife !  " 

"  Offer  something  more  alluring,  sonny,"  said  Stephen, 
"  and  we  might  try  harder." 

"  All  right,  whatever  you  wish,  —  say  a  dinner  at  the 
Carlton,  as  soon  as  we  get  to  London,  —  five  courses  and 
any  wine  you  will!" 

"  Go  softly,  poet,  or  you  will  shock  little  Pen  with  your 
wine  and  wagers.  You  've  never  been  at  the  Carlton,  or 
you  would  n't  be  so  rash.  Your  five-course  dinner  would 
cost  a  month's  pension  in  Berlin  ;  and  the  wine,  your  room 
rent.  Better  have  lower  stakes.  We  '11  bet  a  big  red  apple 
that  before  we  leave  York,  we'll  see  a  polite  English 
man." 

"  Stupid,  I  did  n't  say  that.  I  said  an  Englishman 
who  was  polite  to  his  wife  I  It  shall  be  any  time  before 
we  leave  England.  And  with  the  big  red  apple  shall  go 
a  full  and  contrite  acknowledgment  that  the  loser  was 
mistaken." 

143 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


"  Agreed,"  said  Stephen ;  "a  big  red  apple  for  one  and 
humble  pie  for  the  other." 

"  And  meanwhile  let  us  visit  the  cathedral,"  Donald 
suggested,  rising. 

"  The  Minster?"  Robert  asked. 

"  Oh,  bother  your  fine  distinctions." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Stephen.  "  Little  Pen  has  given 
up  coffee  and  spices.  Let  him  have  dates  and  architraves 
to  take  their  places.  He  's  running  the  architectural  side 
of  this  enterprise.  If  he  says  it 's  a  Minster,  poet,  you  'd 
better  knuckle  down  and  call  it  such." 

It  was  not  a  favorable  day  to  catch  first  glimpses  of  so 
beautiful  a  building  as  the  York  Minster.  The  sky  was 
overcast,  and  cold  gray  clouds  scudded  along  from  the 
northwest.  The  wind  caught  up  little  eddies  of  dead  leaves 
and  dust  and  sent  them  scurrying  along  the  road.  Particles 
of  paper  rushed  here  and  there  on  unmeaning  errands. 
The  three  friends  buttoned  up  their  overcoats,  drew  on 
their  gloves,  and  made  a  dash  across  the  hotel  garden  to 
the  staircase  leading  to  the  walls.  Once  on  top,  they  found 
themselves  safe  from  the  dust  and  dirt,  but  the  wind  had 
added  force  and  made  walking  something  of  a  gymnastic 
feat.  Dark,  slaty  gray  clouds  lay  along  the  horizon,  and 
against  this  background  rose  the  great  stone  mass  of  the 
Minster,  its  towers  and  facades  standing  out  harsh  and 
cold  in  their  over-clear  outlines.  From  the  height  of  the 
walls,  the  low  houses  of  the  town  presented  a  monotony 
of  chimney-pots,  and  an  interminable  expanse  of  dull  slate 
roofs.  The  whole  effect  was  one  of  hopeless  and  unescap- 
able  chilliness. 

Robert  wondered  how  it  would  have  seemed  had  Pauline 
144 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


been  there,  but  the  thought  did  not  bring  him  its  expected 
thrill,  for  he  knew  at  once  that  the  prevailing  gloom  would 
have  filled  her  pagan  soul  with  blank  despair.  She  affected 
to  dislike  Sunday,  and  especially  the  smug  English  Sun 
day.  The  present  day,  in  its  raw,  Puritanical  grayness, 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  her.  It  is  even  doubtful 
whether  she  would  have  left  the  hotel. 

The  wind,  and  the  constant  necessity  for  holding  on  to 
their  hats,  made  conversation  rather  difficult,  even  for 
so  sturdy  a  talker  as  Stephen  or  so  impetuous  a  one  as 
Donald.  It  left  Robert  wholly  to  his  own  thoughts,  and, 
try  as  hard  as  he  would,  he  could  not  lighten  them  a  par 
ticle.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  dreariness  of  the  landscape 
entered  his  spirit  and  took  up  its  abode  there.  He  had  a 
vague  sense  of  irreparable  loss,  as  if  all  the  warmth  and 
sunshine  had  gone  out  of  his  life,  and  this  cold,  depressing 
grayness  had  come  to  take  their  place.  He  was  glad  to 
have  the  walk  end,  to  descend  the  narrow  steps  from  the 
walls,  and  wind  through  the  deserted  streets  to  the  entrance 
to  the  Minster.  At  the  great  door  they  met  a  young  man 
just  coming  out.  Robert  happened  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
his  face.  It  was  white  and  drawn.  Great  circles  shadowed 
the  eyes.  When  for  a  moment  the  young  man  looked  up, 
the  eyes  were  so  full  of  anguish  that  Robert  almost  caught 
his  breath.  What  struck  him  most  was  that  the  anguish 
was  so  profound  that  it  was  wholly  frank  and  unconcealed. 
The  time  for  all  evasions  and  subterfuges  had  clearly 
passed.  The  other  men  had  not  seen  the  face.  For  Robert, 
it  added  the  last  touch  to  his  own  sense  of  desolation. 
"  Poor  soul,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  he  looks  as  I  feel !  " 
A  mist  of  tears  spread  over  Robert's  eyes,  partly  in  pity 

145 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


for  the  troubled  stranger,  and  partly  in  pity  for  himself. 
With  the  others,  he  swept  into  the  great  Minster,  seeing 
and  heeding  little  that  was  going  on  around  him. 

When  Robert  came  to  himself  and  the  mist  had  cleared 
from  his  eyes,  he  found  himself  standing  in  the  central 
aisle  of  the  great  nave.  The  morning  service  was  just  be 
ginning.  The  magnificent  organ  —  perhaps  the  sweetest 
in  all  England  —  was  sounding  forth  its  invitation  to 
worship,  first  soft  and  melodious,  then  appealing  and  per 
suasive,  finally  compelling  and  triumphant.  There  was  a 
moment's  pause,  and  the  prelude  was  followed  by  the  deep 
chords  of  an  ancient  Anglican  hymn.  From  the  distance 
came  the  clear,  boyish  voices  of  the  choristers.  Stronger 
and  stronger  the  voices  grew  as  the  white-robed  procession 
wound  its  way  from  the  chapter  house  through  the  cloister, 
along  the  transept,  and,  with  one  magnificent  final  out 
burst  of  song,  stepped  into  the  stalled  quiet  of  the  great 
choir. 

Robert  had  never  been  so  touched  by  music.  Perhaps 
he  had  never  been  in  quite  so  responsive  a  mood.  The 
well-ordered  music  at  King's  Chapel  usually  left  him  dead 
and  cold.  But  this  music  seemed  to  be  tearing  the  heart 
out  of  him.  The  invitation  of  the  great  organ  had  appar 
ently  been  answered,  —  worship  was  realized. 

Robert  would  have  liked  to  kneel  on  the  bare  stones  of 
the  nave.  As  it  was,  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  grayness 
and  trouble  of  the  morning  walk  slipped  from  him;  but 
not  the  pathos  of  it.  What  slipped  away  was  that  poor 
thing,  the  sense  of  self-pity.  In  its  stead  was  a  profound 
sadness,  so  impersonal  that  it  gave  no  hint  of  being  unen 
durable. 

146 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


When  the  monotonous  chant  of  the  invocation  ended 
and  the  organ  and  choir  sounded  their  solemn  Amen,  Rob 
ert  opened  his  eyes.  He  was  standing  by  himself.  Donald 
had  taken  a  seat  near  the  wall.  Stephen  was  softly  mov 
ing  about,  an  open  Baedeker  in  hand.  It  was  only  now 
that  Robert  really  saw  the  interior  of  the  Minster.  The 
richly  colored  glass  in  the  windows  robbed  the  light  of  all 
grayness,  and  sent  it,  in  warm  radiance,  pidsing  over 
the  glorious  white  clustered  pillars,  the  groined  roof 
above,  the  stone  pavement  below,  the  golden  pipes  of  the 
great  organ,  the  scattered  groups  of  worshipers.  The  great 
Minster  spoke  to  Robert  through  his  eyes,  as  the  great 
organ  had  spoken  to  him  through  his  ears.  He  had  never 
heard  that  architecture  is  frozen  music,  and  had  the 
lines  recurred  to  him,  he  would  have  quickly  denied  them, 
for  in  its  large,  warm  beauty  the  Minster  seemed  to  him 
as  alive  and  palpitating  as  the  music  itself.  None  of  the 
other  cathedrals  had  so  touched  his  spirit.  He  marveled 
that  the  heart  of  man  could  have  conceived  it  and  the 
hand  of  man  built  it,  for  it  seemed  to  him  to  have  the 
bigness  and  beauty  of  Nature  herself.  Robert  stood  there 
during  the  entire  service,  possessor  of  a  great  boon  — 
complete  unconsciousness  of  self.  His  arms  were  folded, 
and  his  slender  body  had  taken  the  restful  attitude  of 
repose.  Many  eyes  wandered  his  way  from  tourists  and 
worshipers  alike,  for  in  his  expressed  reverence,  and  the 
fine  lines  of  his  pose,  he  seemed  touched  by  the  same 
beauty  as  the  music  and  the  Minster,  the  beauty  of  the 
spirit.  When  the  organ  sounded,  Robert  closed  his  eyes 
and  drank  in  the  music  as  a  thirsty  man  drinks  water. 
During  the  intervals,  when  only  the  monotonous  voice  of 

147 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


the  priest  and  the  too  distinct  patter  of  roving  feet  broke 
the  silence,  Robert  gazed  around  him  open-eyed  and  ab 
sorbed.  He  did  not  once  change  his  position.  For  the 
moment  he  lost  his  appetite  for  detail  and  architectural 
distinctions.  By  a  happy  chance,  he  had  stationed  himself 
where  he  could  best  appreciate  the  unity  of  a  great  and 
varied  building,  and  he  had  no  desire  to  surrender  this 
vantage-ground.  At  last  the  service  ended.  The  white- 
robed  procession  swept  out  of  the  choir,  over  the  stone 
of  nave  and  transept,  into  the  further  recesses  of  cloister 
and  chapter  house.  Gradually  the  clear,  boyish  voices  lost 
themselves  in  the  distance,  and  there  was  the  hush  of  an 
occupied  silence.  Robert  was  not  sufficiently  familiar  with 
the  Anglican  service  to  know  that  the  seemingly  vacant  air 
spaces  were  filled  with  an  inaudible  benediction.  By  some 
instinct  of  worship,  he  remained  motionless,  his  own  spirit 
arrested  and  hushed.  It  was  only  when  the  final  Amen 
rose  clear  and  solemn  in  the  distance  that  the  spell  ended 
and  he  felt  at  liberty  to  move. 

Robert  looked  about  him.  Stephen  and  Donald  were 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  A  curious  weariness  stole  over 
Robert,  and  he  made  his  way  to  a  retired  seat  near  one 
of  the  great  pillars.  He  rather  reproached  himself  for 
not  looking  up  his  friends  and  exploring  the  rest  of  the 
Minster  with  them ;  but  the  reproach  never  grew  quite 
imperative  enough  to  start  him  into  action. 

Presently  Robert  was  dimly  conscious  that  two  ladies 
passed  in  front  of  him,  and  stood,  somewhat  to  his  own 
inconvenience,  admiring  the  vista  of  the  south  transept. 
They  had  their  backs  turned  towards  him,  and  made  no 
impression  upon  him  beyond  the  fact  that  they  formed  two 

148 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


dark,  obscuring  figures  against  the  brightness  of  the  stone 
work.  The  younger  woman  was  talking,  but  in  so  low  a 
tone  that  Robert  could  not  understand  what  she  was  say 
ing.  The  voice  was  too  indistinct  to  be  in  any  case  familiar, 
and  yet  it  vaguely  touched  some  chord  in  Robert's  mem 
ory.  When  the  older  woman  answered,  she  turned  half 
way  round  towards  Robert  in  order  to  study  some  other 
part  of  the  building.  Robert  could  not  remember  that  he 
had  ever  seen  her  before.  Her  answer  took  the  form  of  a 
quotation :  — 

"  He  builded  better  than  he  knew ;  — 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew." 

By  the  time  she  had  finished,  Robert  was  on  his  feet. 
It  was  Sappho's  voice,  unquestionably  hers,  the  same 
unique,  high-pitched  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  no 
part  of  her  own  person,  but  from  the  air  above  her.  As 
Robert  rose,  the  younger  woman  turned,  and  he  was  face 
to  face  with  Alicia. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Pendexter,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Alicia, 
extending  her  hand  cordially.  "  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you 
again.  Mrs.  Costello,  this  is  one  of  our  fellow  voyagers  on 
the  Republic,  Mr.  Pendexter.  You  ought  to  know  each 
other,  for  you  're  almost  neighbors.  Your  family  is  from 
Bolton,  I  think  you  told  me,  Mr.  Pendexter  ?  " 

Robert  shook  hands  with  both  ladies,  and  after  express 
ing  his  pleasure  at  seeing  them,  turned  to  Mrs.  Costello 
and  said :  "  I  think  Miss  Smith  has  a  famous  memory, 
don't  you,  to  recall  both  my  name  and  birthplace  ?  " 

"A  better  memory  than  you  have,  apparently,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Costello,  "  since  you  have  already  forgotten 
Miss  Frothingham's  name." 

149 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  I  never  knew  it  before,"  said  Robert,  simply.  "  We 
always  called  her  '  Miss  Smith.'  " 

"  How  very  droU !  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  Because  we  knew  no  other  name,"  Robert  answered, 
"  and  one  must  have  a  handle  of  some  sort." 

"  Did  you  name  all  the  ship's  company  in  this  prosaic 
fashion  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Costello. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Robert ;  "  only  the  people  we  had 
something  to  do  with."  Then  he  added  a  little  shyly,  "  The 
names  were  n't  always  prosaic.  For  example,  we  called  you 
'  Sappho.'  I  hope  you  don't  mind  ?  " 

Mrs.  Costello  laughed  pleasantly  "  How  could  I  mind  ? ' ' 
she  said.  "  I  think  that  is  a  very  high  compliment.  Pray 
tell  me  how  you  chanced  to  give  it  to  me." 

"  Don't  you  remember  that  last  night  on  the  steamer 
when  you  recited  Mrs.  Browning's  poem  for  us  ?  We 
thought  it  very  kind  of  you." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure.  I  had  quite  forgotten,"  replied  Mrs. 
Costello ;  "  but  I  do  not  recall  your  voice.  Are  you  the 
young  man  who  repeated  some  verses  of  his  own  and  then 
something  of  Mr.  Arnold's  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  merely  listened.  That  was  my  friend,  Donald 
Fergusson." 

"  I  cared  for  his  verses,"  continued  Mrs.  Costello.  "  They 
were  not  very  smooth,  but  they  seemed  to  me  to  have  a 
high  seriousness  about  them,  and  to  promise  stronger  work 
in  the  future.  I  thought  the  rest  were  rather  hard  on  him. 
But  he  took  it  very  nicely,  as  I  remember." 

"  Donald  's  all  right,"  said  Robert,  heartily. 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  inquired  Alicia ;  "  and  your  other  friend, 
Mr.  Morse,  the  young  lawyer  ?  " 

150 


AT  YORK   MINSTER 


"  Very  well,  both  of  them,"  replied  Robert.  "  They  are 
in  the  Minster  somewhere.  I  got  dreaming  and  lost  sight 
of  them." 

"  I  hardly  wonder,"  Alicia  said.  "  It 's  a  place  mo^ut  to 
dream  in.  What  an  astonishingly  beautiful  service.  It 
was  so  truly  catholic.  I  felt  in  touch  with  all  the  religions 
of  the  world.  The  division  fences  of  doctrine  seemed  to 
crumble  away  before  the  music.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
Mrs.  Costello,  I  should  have  flown  off  into  space.  She 
kept  a  friendly  hold  upon  me." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  did  n't  go  off,"  said  Robert,  "  for  then 
I  should  n't  have  seen  you,"  and  after  a  second's  pause, 
"  or  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mrs.  Costello." 

The  elder  lady  smiled  at  this  nai've  addition.  She 
was  rather  amused  at  Robert's  provincialism,  but  she  al 
ready  felt  that  she  liked  this  young  man  from  Bolton,  for 
under  his  simple  words  there  was  the  manifest  ring  of 
sincerity. 

By  unspoken  consent  they  were  moving  towards  the 
door.  The  music  had  ceased,  and  the  great  Minster  was 
slowly  emptying  itself.  They  had  gone  but  a  short  distance 
when  they  came  upon  Stephen  and  Donald.  The  young 
men  were  frankly  glad  to  see  Alicia  again  and  to  be  pre 
sented  to  Mrs.  Costello.  As  the  four  were  chatting  together, 
Robert  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  two  ladies.  He 
now  recalled  having  seen  Mrs.  Costello  on  the  steamer, 
but  he  had  not  happened  to  hear  her  speak  except  that 
one  evening  under  the  stars,  and  so  did  not  associate  her 
with  Sappho.  Robert  watched  her  with  friendly  curiosity. 
She  was  a  woman  of  uncertain  age.  She  might  be  forty, 
or  she  might  be  sixty.  Somehow  the  question  of  age  did 

151 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


not  seem  to  attach  itself  to  Mrs.  Costello.  No  one  short  of 
a  German  petty  municipal  officer  would  have  thought  of 
asking  her  age.  While  Robert  was  not  at  all  curious 
about  it,  he  was  curious  to  know  how  one  human  face 
could  have  so  much  in  it.  It  was  a  highly  sensitive  face, 
rather  large  for  the  slender,  almost  girlish  figure  that  sup 
ported  it.  Dark  chestnut  hair,  perceptibly  touched  with 
gray,  fell  in  gentle  curves  almost  to  the  ears,  and  gave  the 
face  an  old-fashioned,  but  at  the  same  time  an  attractive 
setting.  Careless  observers  might  have  passed  Mrs.  Cos 
tello  by  without  seeing  her,  but  any  one  who  saw  her  once 
would  never  fail  to  see  her  again.  Robert  liked  her  face 
immensely,  liked  its  strength  and  its  repose.  Somehow  he 
felt  that  if  circumstances  allowed,  he  and  Mrs.  Costello 
might  be  great  friends.  Mrs.  Costello's  costume  was  as 
unusual  as  her  face  and  her  voice.  Her  dress  was  gray,  of 
a  shade  distinctly  lighter  than  travelers  usually  affect.  It 
was  perfectly  plain,  and  impressed  one  rather  as  a  drapery 
than  as  a  dress.  The  cloak  was  of  the  same  color  and  mate 
rial,  and  possessed  a  like  amplitude.  It  was  fastened  by 
silk  ribbons  of  a  lighter  shade,  and  was  further  secured 
by  two  large  amethyst  pins,  one  on  each  side.  The  stones 
were  set  in  silver,  and  were  attached  to  each  other  by  a 
curious  silver  chain.  Mrs.  Costello's  bonnet  was  the  very 
opposite  of  a  picture  hat.  It  was  built  upon  the  principle 
of  self-effacement.  It  fitted  snugly  to  her  head,  and  gained 
all  its  picturesqueness  from  a  soft,  opaque  veil  of  silver- 
gray. 

Miss  Frothingham  was  dressed  in  a  plain  cloth  gown  of 
dark  green.  The  two  women  had  one  thing  in  common, 
the  air  of  distinction  which  Donald  had  already  remarked 

152 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


in  Alicia,  but  in  all  external  matters  they  were  almost 
the  opposite  of  each  other.  Alicia's  dress  was  in  taste,  but 
wholly  conventional.  Her  face  had  its  moments  of  grave 
repose,  when  something  of  her  friend's  look  of  other-world- 
liness  stole  into  it ;  but  ordinarily,  and  especially  when 
she  talked,  her  face  was  full  of  an  irrepressible  vivacity, 
so  sensitive  and  mobile  that  her  every  thought  swept  over 
it  like  gusts  of  wind  over  the  responsive  surface  of  a  lake. 
The  two  friends  set  each  other  off  capitally.  Each  gained 
from  the  other's  presence. 

It  was  a  slow  progress  down  the  great  nave  of  the  Min 
ster,  interrupted  by  frequent  pauses  to  gaze  anew  at  the 
changing  but  ever  beautiful  vistas.  There  were  frequent 
silences,  too,  when,  by  a  common  instinct,  thought  seemed 
more  adequate  and  coherent  than  words.  By  no  precon 
ceived  plan,  but  merely  by  a  natural  activity  born  of 
circumstances,  the  group  shifted  almost  kaleidoscopically, 
forming  and  reforming  into  fresh  combinations.  Robert 
found  himself  talking  first  to  one  lady  and  then  to  the 
other;  not  infrequently  to  Stephen  or  Donald.  At  the 
west  entrance  there  was  a  final  pause  and  lingering  sur 
vey.  Then  the  party  swept  out  into  the  windy  grayness  of 
the  streets. 

Robert  was  keenly  alive  to  the  contrast,  but  the  peace 
and  elation  that  had  come  to  him  under  the  spell  of  the 
service  had  not  spent  themselves,  and  he  rather  enjoyed 
the  sense  of  battling  against  the  wind. 

A  two-wheeler  was  waiting  for  the  ladies.  They  re 
gretted  its  limited  capacity,  and  that  they  could  not  pick 
up  the  three  friends  also.  They  would  be  lunching  in 
their  own  rooms,  they  said,  but  hoped  that  the  three  men 

153 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


would  be  their  guests  at  seven  o'clock  dinner.  It  was 
Mrs.  Costello  who  added  the  detail  that  she  would  bespeak 
a  large  enough  table.  Stephen  bethought  himself  to  ask 
if  they  had  no  instructions  for  the  cabby. 

"  Yes,  thank  you  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Costello.  "  I 
had  quite  forgotten  it.  Tell  him,  please,  to  drive  slowly 
around  the  Minster  three  times,  and  then  return  to  the 
hotel  by  the  longest  and  most  circuitous  route  he  can 
devise.  We  shall  be  wanting  to  get  the  air." 

The  ladies  started  off,  and  the  three  friends  turned  to 
their  own  plans.  They  decided  in  a  briefer  way  to  follow 
Mrs.  Costello's  scheme,  going  around  the  Minster  once 
and  then  wandering  through  the  narrow  streets  towards 
the  County  and  Station  Hotel.  The  wind  made  them 
avoid  the  walls. 

"Let's  go  round  the  Minster  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,"  suggested  Robert,  "so  we  may  not  seem  to  be 
copying  Mrs.  Costello  too  closely." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  objected  Stephen.  "  If  we  do  that, 
we  shall  surely  meet  the  ladies,  face  to  face,  and  they 
will  have  to  speak  to  us,  while  if  we  go  in  the  same  direc 
tion,  they  can  only  see  our  backs  as  they  pass  us,  and 
can  go  on  with  a  conversation  that,  by  Jove,  I  'd  like  to 
hear!" 

"  "Wise  as  a  serpent,"  commended  Donald.  "  I  believe, 
little  Pen,  that  the  judge  is  growing  subtle.  It 's  a  good 
thing  for  poets  to  be  subtle,  but  not  for  judges.  We  must 
head  him  off,  or  he  may  lose  the  judgeship." 

Robert  laughed,  and  suggested  that  in  such  a  case 
Stephen  must  not  be  allowed  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Costello. 
Then  he  turned  and  asked,  "  Why  did  you  want  to  know 

154 


AT  YORK   MINSTER 


what  they  are  saying?  Do  you  think  they  are  talking 
about  us?" 

"Lord,  no,"  answered  Stephen,  quickly;  "they  are 
talking  about  something  bigger  and  much  more  worth 
while." 

Presently  the  two-wheeler  passed  them  on  its  second 
round,  and  then  the  three  friends  lost  sight  of  it,  as  they 
themselves  had  completed  their  circuit  and  were  starting 
for  the  hotel. 

Our  three  young  friends  lunched  together,  and  then 
separated  with  rather  vague  plans  for  home  letters,  read 
ing,  and  those  other  quiet  occupations  which  travelers 
sometimes  allow  themselves  as  great  luxuries  in  the  more 
strenuous  business  of  sight-seeing. 

Robert  went  directly  to  his  own  room.  He  had  no  home 
letters  to  write.  He  had  written  to  the  cousins  at  Bolton 
twice  since  he  had  been  away,  and  had  already  astonished 
them  as  well  as  himself.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him 
to  write  to  either  of  the  partners  of  the  firm  of  Messrs. 
Watson  and  Reed,  coffee  and  spice  merchants,  nor  had  he 
any  inclination  to  write  to  any  of  his  former  fellow  clerks. 
Dennis  Sullivan  excepted,  he  knew  that  he  never  wanted 
to  see  any  of  them  again.  Robert  had  several  books  to 
read,  but  they  were  all  improving,  of  the  guide-book  order 
of  literature,  and  had  no  attractions  for  his  present  mood. 
He  wandered  up  and  down  the  room,  the  very  picture 
of  restlessness.  Finally  he  drew  his  chair  up  to  the  win 
dow,  and  sat  there  listlessly  looking  out  over  the  dull 
town,  and  towards  the  spires  of  the  beautiful  Minster. 
He  recalled  the  elation  of  the  morning,  but  it  seemed  a 
long  way  off  and  quite  unrelated  to  himself.  It  had  all 

155 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


taken  place,  but  even  in  his  memory  he  seemed  a  mere 
spectator  of  the  emotion.  In  spite  of  himself,  the  grayness 
of  the  day  had  taken  possession  of  his  spirit,  and  he  was 
consciously  miserable.  In  addition,  all  the  New  England 
ancestors  were  in  revolt.  They  told  him,  one  and  all,  that 
with  such  a  princely  income  and  in  such  a  spot,  —  which 
they  themselves  would  have  been  only  too  pleased  and  too 
grateful  to  have  been  allowed  by  Providence  to  visit,  — 
he  was  a  poor  creature  indeed  not  to  be  supremely  happy. 
Robert  had  been  learning  of  late  to  stand  out  against 
these  family  ghosts,  and  had  several  victories  to  his  credit ; 
but  in  moods  like  the  present,  he  had  no  fight  in  him, 
and  the  ancestors  had  him  quite  at  their  mercy.  Their 
company,  however,  counted  just  now  for  as  little  as  their 
counsels.  What  Robert  was  chiefly  conscious  of  was  a 
desolating  and  unutterable  loneliness.  He  pictured  Pauline 
happy  in  her  father  and  Billy;  Stephen  as  the  intimate 
friend  of  Donald ;  Miss  Frothingham  obviously  satisfied 
with  the  rare  comradeship  of  Mrs.  Costello.  He  alone 
seemed  solitary  and  wretched.  He  was  too  inexperienced 
to  know  that  from  this  same  nostalgia,  this  homesickness 
of  the  spirit,  more  than  half  the  world  is  suffering ;  that 
it  is  worse  than  poverty,  or  illness,  or  disaster;  but  that, 
like  them,  it  is  the  pathway  to  eternal  peace.  Just  now 
he  felt  only  the  pain  of  it,  a  pain  so  drenching  and  ter 
rible  that  his  spirit  absolutely  rebelled  against  it,  and  he 
symbolized  his  rebellion  by  once  more  pacing  furiously 
up  and  down  the  room.  Neither  Doane  Street  nor  Pinck- 
ney  Street  would  have  recognized  in  this  passionately 
rebellious  creature  the  docile  Robert  Pendexter  of  its  late 
acquaintance. 

156 


AT  YORK  MINSTER 


When  Robert  felt  that  he  could  endure  the  pain  no 
longer,  he  turned  on  the  light,  and  sat  down  to  the  writ 
ing-table.  He  persuaded  himself  that  he  knew  the  cause 
of  all  his  trouble,  and  also  the  one  remedy.  Soon  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  rapid  scratching  of  his  pen,  as  he  threw 
aside  sheet  after  sheet  of  the  longest  personal  letter  he 
had  ever  written  in  all  his  life. 


CHAPTER  IX 
ROBERT'S  LOVE-LETTER 

COUNTY  AND  STATION  HOTEL,  YOKK, 
Sunday,  October  fifteenth. 

DEAR  Miss  MARSHALL  :  —  I  have  no  right  to  send  you 
this  letter,  even  to  write  it,  perhaps  not  even  to  think  it. 
It  would  not  be  strictly  true  if  I  said  that  I  could  not 
help  writing  it,  for  I  suppose  we  can  always  help  doing 
what  we  do.  But  it  is  true  that,  whatever  happens,  I  do 
not  want  to  help  writing  it.  Even  if  you  are  offended  and 
resentful,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  must  speak  out  and  tell 
you  what  is  in  my  heart.  But  I  think  I  know  you  too  well 
to  believe  that  you  will  be  offended.  What  I  am  most 
afraid  of  is  that  you  will  be  indifferent.  Dear  Miss  Mar 
shall,  dear  Pauline,  please  read  this  letter  with  an  open 
heart.  Forgive  its  poor  expression  and  stupidities,  and  just 
say  to  yourself,  "  It  is  a  life-and-death  matter  to  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter.  He  was  at  least  my  friend  for  a  short  time,  and  I 
must  take  a  real  interest  in  what  is  so  important  to  him." 
You  are  so  big  and  generous,  I  know  you  will  do  this  for 
my  sake  and  read  to  the  end.  I  was  never  in  love  before. 
I  never  saw  a  woman  that  I  wanted  to  marry  or  even  to  be 
well  acquainted  with.  Mr.  Fergusson  says  this  a  terrible 
confession,  and  that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  for  I  am 
already  thirty-four.  But  it  is  the  truth.  And  if  I  ever 
wanted  to  tell  any  one  the  truth,  I  want  to  tell  it  to  you.  I 
always  thought  of  myself  as  an  old  bachelor,  and  I  meant 
to  be  one  always.  Just  the  thought  of  being  married  fright- 

158 

I 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


ened  me,  for  I  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  care  for  any 
one  enough  to  want  to  be  with  them  always.  When  I  went 
to  Gorphwysf  a,  I  thought  I  was  a  very  happy  man,  and  a 
very  lucky  one,  too.  I  had  enough  money  to  live  on.  I  had 
got  well  much  faster  than  I  thought  I  ever  could.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  a  whole  year  in  Europe  was  just  what  I  wanted, 
and  all  I  wanted.  The  only  thing  that  bothered  me  at  all 
was  that  Mr.  Morse  had  to  go  back  to  Boston  this  month. 
You  know  what  happened  to  me  at  Gorphwysfa,  and  how 
I  got  deeper  and  deeper  in  love  every  moment  we  were 
together  at  Bowness.  But  you  do  not  know  just  how  won 
derful  it  all  was,  for  I  did  not  know  myself,  then.  I  did 
not  know  at  first  what  had  happened  to  me.  I  suppose  I 
did  not  know,  never  having  been  in  love  before.  My  cou 
sins  at  Bolton  used  to  read  a  lot  of  novels.  I  guess  they 
were  pretty  sentimental.  At  least  our  aunt  said  they  were, 
and  tried  to  make  the  girls  stop  reading  them.  But  they 
wouldn't  stop.  They  got  their  ideas  of  love  out  of  the 
novels,  I  suppose,  for  the  young  men  at  Bolton  were  all 
afraid  of  my  Aunt  Matilda  and  did  not  come  to  see  the 
girls,  or  at  least  not  often.  But  Priscilla  and  Mattie  be 
lieved  in  love  at  first  sight,  and  when  the  right  man  came 
along,  they  said  they  expected  to  know  it  right  off.  Martha 
was  not  so  sure,  and  she  and  I  used  to  laugh  at  the  others 
a  lot,  and  say  it  was  stuff  and  nonsense.  But  I  was  all 
wrong,  for  I  did  not  know  one  little  thing  about  it.  Dear 
Pauline,  I  fell  in  love  with  you  at  first  sight.  I  mean  at 
the  dinner-table.  I  did  not  really  see  you  out  in  the  hall 
before  the  fire,  so  I  do  not  count  that  time.  And  since 
then,  I  have  loved  you  more  and  more,  until  now  it  just 
seems  as  if  I  could  not  get  on  without  you.  I  do  not  know 

159 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


how  you  feel.  I  do  not  see,  honest,  how  you  could  care 
anything  for  me,  now.  But  perhaps  if  you  know  how 
it  is  with  me,  you  might  think  it  over,  and  then,  some 
time,  you  might  come  to  care  for  me  just  a  little,  and 
then  a  little  more,  and  at  last  enough  to  make  you  will 
ing  to  marry  me.  Oh,  Pauline,  if  you  only  could,  I  should 
be  just  made  up !  I  would  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy. 
It  seems  to  me  I  could,  if  you  would  only  let  me  try. 
Won't  you  let  me  try,  Pauline  ?  Don't  just  put  me  aside 
and  say  it  is  no  use.  I  would  not  bother  you  for  the 
world,  and  I  promise  you  sure  that  I  won't  bother  you, 
but  I  could  not  stand  it  to  be  just  put  aside  without  a 
chance.  Please  think  it  all  over,  and  try  to  care  for  me 
just  a  little  bit  to  start  with.  I  don't  ask  much  at  first. 
Only  keep  me  in  mind,  and  say  to  yourself  softly,  "  He 
loves  me,  he  loves  me,  how  he  loves  me !  "  If  you  will  do 
that,  I  will  be  perfectly  contented.  And  I  won't  write  you 
another  letter,  honor  bright,  I  won't,  if  you  say  not,  and  I 
won't  try  to  see  you  until  we  get  to  Paris  in  November. 
You  promised  that  I  might  see  you  in  Paris,  so  I  am  sure 
of  that  much.  I  feel  that  I  must  see  you  then,  even  if  you 
don't  want  to  see  me.  I  feel  that  I  can't  stay  away  any 
longer  than  that.  But  oh,  Pauline,  I  want  you  to  be  glad 
to  see  me,  if  only  a  tiny  bit,  and  to  give  me  a  chance.  It 
seems  out  of  all  reason  to  think  that  you  could  ever  care 
for  me,  but  somehow  I  feel  that  if  you  would  let  me  try,  I 
could  make  you  care  for  me.  I  know  I  have  not  much  to 
offer  you,  looking  at  it  just  coldly.  I  am  not  handsome,  or 
clever,  or  well  educated.  I  know  all  this.  I  am  not  even 
very  strong.  I  am  just  a  dull  country  boy  that  has  lived 
in  Boston  for  a  time  and  been  a  clerk  in  a  wholesale  house. 

160 


ROBERT'S  LOVE-LETTER 


I  am  not  rich,  either,  not  as  your  father  would  count  it. 
My  income  is  not  nearly  as  big  as  yours.  Mine  is  only  a 
little  over  six  thousand  a  year,  and  I  suppose  will  never  be 
any  bigger.  But  I  know  you  don't  care  about  being  rich, 
and  I  don't  either.  I  am  a  good  deal  older  than  you  are. 
I  don't  know  how  old  you  are,  of  course,  but  I  know  that 
you  are  still  a  young  girl.  I  was  thirty-four  last  July,  on 
the  17th.  But  I  am  really  not  so  old  as  that.  It  seems  as 
if  I  were  only  twenty-five.  I  have  just  begun  to  live.  I 
think  in  one  sense  that  you  are  older  than  I  am,  for  you 
have  always  lived.  When  I  think  of  this,  I  feel  a  little 
hopeless.  I  know  very  well  that  there  is  a  great  difference 
in  our  lives.  You  have  always  had  everything,  and  until 
recently  I  have  had  nothing.  I  have  lived  a  very  dull  life, 
how  dull  I  did  not  know  until  just  the  other  day,  when  I 
began  to  wake  up.  I  am  not  awake  yet,  not  nearly  so 
wide  awake  as  you  are.  But  right  here,  dear  Pauline,  I 
am  full  of  hope.  Something  tells  me  that  I  shall  win  out, 
and  shall  reach  the  bigger  life  that  I  am  just  beginning  to 
see.  I  do  not  know  what  this  something  is  that  is  being 
born  inside  of  me.  I  should  call  it  a  soul,  but  I  know  that 
you  don't  like  that  word.  Whatever  it  is,  though,  I  am 
very  sure  about  it.  You  will  not  misunderstand  me,  Paul 
ine,  and  think  that  I  am  a  boaster.  I  know  what  a  com 
monplace  fellow  I  am  now,  but  I  shall  not  be  always. 
With  your  help,  I  could  be  more  what  I  want  to  be,  — 

Here  Robert  broke  off  suddenly.  Was  this  quite  true  ? 
Could  Pauline  help  him  to  be  the  sort  of  a  man  that  he 
wanted  to  be?  He  read  the  letter  over  with  a  growing 
doubt  in  his  heart.  It  had  been  written  in  a  great  heat, 

161 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


It  had  been  true,  every  word  of  it,  as  he  wrote,  until  he 
came  to  the  last  part.  This  sounded  labored  and  flounder 
ing.  Again  he  read  the  whole  letter  through.  It  began 
to  seem  to  him  just  what  it  was,  —  a  great  cry  of  lone 
liness.  It  was  loneliness,  not  love,  that  had  prompted 
this  one-sided  appeal  for  companionship.  Eobert  began 
to  realize  that  all  through  the  letter  he  had  been  thinking 
of  himself,  and  not  of  Pauline ;  that  he  had  been  shock 
ingly  selfish.  And  even  here,  when  it  came  to  the  supreme 
moment,  the  time  when  he  had  alluded  to  the  deepest 
matter  of  all,  to  that  growth  of  a  soul,  whose  birth  pains 
he  was  already  beginning  to  feel,  he  had  gone  miserably 
lame  and  platitudinous,  and  had  ended  by  being  not  even 
sincere.  He  could  not  truthfully  say  that  Pauline  could 
help  him  in  the  great  way  that  he  had  said  she  could. 
Pauline  was  undoubtedly  superb  —  superb  in  health  and 
poise;  but  to  one  side  of  life  she  was  absolutely  deaf 
and  dumb  and  blind.  And  it  was  the  very  side  of  life  to 
which  his  own  nature  was  just  beginning  to  awaken.  She 
would  have  been  bored  by  the  morning's  service,  and  would 
have  utterly  failed  to  understand  his  own  ecstasy.  It  was 
doubtful  whether  she  would  even  have  been  interested  in 
the  Minster  itself  merely  as  a  building,  or  in  the  music 
merely  as  sweet  and  solemn  sound. 

It  struck  Robert  that  perhaps  Pauline  was  too  strong, 
if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  had  perhaps  too  perfect 
health,  and  needed  a  touch  of  suffering  to  awaken  the  soul 
within  her.  And  he  thought  very  tenderly  and  reverently 
that  were  Pauline  a  mother,  perhaps  the  solemn  suffering 
of  motherhood,  and  the  appeal  of  the  child,  would  quicken 
Pauline's  heart-boat  and  she  would  see. 

162 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


As  soon  as  Robert  shifted  his  point  of  view  and  began 
to  think  of  Pauline's  side  of  the  question,  he  began  to  see 
with  fatal  clearness  that  his  own  love,  or  any  that  he  might 
feel,  could  not  be  the  liberator,  that  Pauline  could  not 
respond  to  it.  As  he  put  himself  out  of  the  question,  and 
saw  only  Pauline,  he  realized,  as  with  a  startling  illumina 
tion,  that  Pauline  had  her  own  needs,  —  needs  not  satisfied 
by  either  her  father  or  Billy ;  needs  not  to  be  satisfied  by 
one  of  his  own  negative  and  hesitating  temperament.  But 
illuminating  as  the  thought  was,  it  was  not  comforting.  A 
great  wave  of  feeling  swept  over  Robert  and  left  him  sub 
merged  and  gasping.  Remote  as  he  felt  Pauline  to  be,  he 
could  not  help  holding  out  to  her  the  hands  of  the  spirit. 
A  great  yearning  filled  his  heart.  He  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands.  His  slender  frame  was  shaken  by  dry,  tearless 
sobs. 

It  was  in  this  position  that  Stephen  found  him  when,  a 
few  moments  later,  he  entered  the  room  to  see  if  Robert 
were  ready  for  dinner.  Stephen  gave  no  sign  that  he  de 
tected  any  trouble,  and  Robert  was  grateful  to  him  for  the 
assumed  blindness.  There  was  an  added  tenderness  in 
Stephen's  voice,  however,  which  told  Robert  of  his  keen 
sympathy. 

"  Come,  little  Pen,"  Stephen  said  lightly,  "  it 's  time 
to  dress.  Have  you  forgotten  that  we  are  to  dine  with 
Sappho  and  Miss  Frothingham  ?  " 

Robert  started  up  guiltily,  for  he  had  quite  forgotten 
the  invitation.  It  was  almost  seven  now,  so  Stephen  re 
mained  and  helped  him  jump  into  his  dinner-clothes. 
Donald  soon  joined  them,  and  they  got  downstairs  just  in 
time  not  to  keep  the  ladies  waiting.  Robert  had  the  power 

163 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


of  quick  recovery.  He  had  been  very  genuinely  in  the 
depths  of  despair.  But  once  more  with  his  friends,  he  felt 
warmed  and  comforted,  and  took  his  share  in  the  dinner- 
talk  so  successfully  that  Stephen  fancied  himself  mistaken 
in  his  friend's  earlier  mood,  and  almost  came  to  believe 
that  he  had  caught  him  merely  napping  instead  of  ago 
nizing. 

Miss  Frothiiigham  watched  Kobert  with  renewed  inter 
est.  She  sensed  some  radical  change  in  the  inexperienced 
young  man  who  had  seemed  to  her,  on  the  steamer,  to  be 
possessed  of  a  certain  charm,  but  quite  too  crude  and  boy 
ish  to  be  genuinely  interesting.  She  had  never  thought 
of  presenting  any  of  the  young  men  to  Mrs.  Costello. 

It  chanced  that  Kobert  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Costello,  while 
Alicia  had  Stephen  on  one  side  of  her,  and  Donald  on  the 
other.  This  arrangement  suited  Robert  as  well  as  any. 
His  very  indifference  gave  an  easy  distinction  to  his  man 
ners,  which  he  could  never  achieve  in  more  self-conscious 
moments.  It  also  gave  him  a  certain  leadership,  which 
would  have  struck  him  as  highly  presumptuous  had  he 
stopped  to  think  about  it.  If  Mrs.  Costello  spoke,  Robert 
quite  naturally  answered  her.  If  Alicia  spoke,  he  did  the 
same.  If  either  Stephen  or  Donald  made  a  remark  not 
directly  addressed  to  one  of  the  ladies,  it  was  Robert  who 
took  it  up  and  replied  to  it.  As  a  result  of  these  uncon 
scious  tactics,  all  the  talk  was  soon  directed  towards  Rob 
ert.  He  met  the  situation  without  knowing  that  he  was 
doing  it.  An  outsider  would  have  said  that  it  was  Robert 
who  was  giving  the  dinner-party,  and  that  he  was  acquit 
ting  himself  most  admirably.  They  might  further  have 
thought  that  it  was  a  chance  meeting,  welcome,  it  is  true, 

164 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


to  all,  but  with  Robert  on  one  side  and  the  other  four  on 
the  other.  They  seemed  ranged  up  in  this  fashion,  for 
Robert  spoke  as  deferentially,  and  it  must  be  confessed 
as  distantly,  to  the  men  as  to  the  ladies. 

Stephen  chuckled  to  himself  to  see  this  erstwhile  bash 
ful  young  man  carrying  things  off  quite  in  the  grand  man 
ner,  and  doing  it  so  innocently.  He  wondered  whether 
the  mood  would  last  out  the  dinner.  He  took  it  to  be  a 
somewhat  feverish  reaction  after  the  undoubted  despond 
ency  of  the  afternoon,  and  in  spite  of  his  own  amusement, 
he  felt  a  little  anxious  about  his  friend. 

Robert  was  so  manifestly  master  of  ceremonies  that  the 
waiters,  who  are  not  all  stupids,  but  really  applied  psy 
chologists  of  considerable  insight,  brought  the  plates  and 
dishes  to  him,  even  asked  deferentially  if  he  would  dress 
the  salad  himself,  or  have  it  dressed  outside.  Robert  took 
all  these  arrangements  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  dressed 
the  salad  as  he  had  seen  his  cousins  at  Bolton  do  it,  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  his  Aunt  Matilda  allowed  herself 
this  luxury,  and  talked  on  with  as  much  unconcern  as  if 
he  were  not  meanwhile  counting  out  salt,  paprika,  vinegar, 
and  olive  oil. 

This  unconscious  display  on  Robert's  part  had  a  quite 
different  effect  on  each  one  of  the  party.  Both  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello  and  Alicia  were  women  of  large  social  experience, 
and  knew  so  many  types  of  men  that  they  could  usually 
classify  a  man  without  so  much  as  trying.  But  both  were 
now  puzzled.  Mrs.  Costello  mistook  the  ease  of  manner 
for  a  large  worldliness,  which  was  constantly  belied  by  a 
certain  freshness  of  view  that  spoke  of  a  curiously  un 
spoiled  nature.  Had  she  herself  been  a  smaller  woman, 

165 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


she  might  not  quite  have  liked  it  to  be  put  so  completely 
aside  as  hostess.  But  she  was  not  in  any  way  small.  Her 
one  concern  was  to  have  the  dinner  go  well,  and  since  it 
was  going  famously,  she  was  wholly  satisfied.  With  Alicia 
the  case  was  different.  She  realized  such  a  change  in 
Robert  that  she  felt  completely  at  sea  with  regard  to  his 
real  self,  thinking  at  one  moment  that  he  must  be  acting 
a  part,  at  another  that  she  had  probably  been  singularly 
unobservant  on  the  steamer,  and  had  probably  not  troubled 
to  know  what  he  was.  It  never  occurred  to  Alicia  that 
in  the  meanwhile  such  strong  influences  had  been  playing 
upon  Robert  that  in  reality  he  was  a  different  and  un 
known  person. 

Donald's  attitude,  like  Stephen's,  was  one  prolonged 
chuckle,  but  wholly  devoid  of  Stephen's  solicitude.  Don 
ald  was  entirely  conscious  of  the  metamorphosis  taking 
place  in  Robert,  although  he  quite  failed  to  divine  the 
cause.  He  watched  the  unfolding  in  precisely  the  same 
spirit  that  he  would  have  watched  a  play.  He  even 
planned  a  verse,  to  be  called  "The  Awakening,"  but 
abandoned  it  on  recognizing  that  as  yet  he  had  seized 
upon  no  dramatic  motive  strong  enough  to  account  for 
the  thing  itself. 

Stephen,  of  course,  came  the  nearest  to  a  true  diagno 
sis,  because  he  of  all  had  the  deepest  affection  for  the 
man.  He  felt  both  anxious  and  interested.  He  more  than 
half  guessed  the  significance  of  the  scene  in  Robert's 
room  that  afternoon,  and  realized  the  hopelessness  of  it. 
This  made  him  anxious,  for  a  certain  experience  of  his 
own  some  six  years  before  had  taught  him  what  such  pain 
meant.  But  he  was  even  more  interested,  for  his  young 

166 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


friend  had  made  such  astonishing  progress  in  the  social 
arts  that  Stephen  could  only  wonder  what  the  end 
would  be. 

If  Robert  had  known  that  he  was  the  subject  of  so 
much  speculation  on  the  part  of  his  fellow  diners,  he 
would  have  relapsed  into  an  embarrassed  silence  that 
would  have  added  still  more  to  their  perplexity.  But  no 
one  betrayed  more  than  a  polite  interest  in  the  current 
talk.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  dinner,  they  went  up  to 
Mrs.  Costello's  drawing-room.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
either  Mrs.  Costello  or  Alicia  to  ask  if  the  men  smoked. 
Stephen  and  Donald  chafed  a  little  at  the  deprivation, 
and  not  even  the  coffee  brought  them  quite  to  their  accus 
tomed  level  of  after-dinner  contentment.  As  Robert  never 
smoked,  he  was  not  bothered  by  any  unfulfilled  desires, 
and  continued  to  be  the  one  most  at  ease.  He  was  rather 
quieter  than  at  dinner,  for  he  began  to  realize  that  he 
had  been  doing  more  than  his  share  of  the  talking. 

When  they  had  got  well  settled  in  the  drawing-room, 
Robert  had  a  good  opportunity  to  turn  the  talk  over  to 
Alicia.  He  had  noticed  with  pleasure  that  she  wore  the 
superb  jewel  that  he  had  so  much  admired  on  the  Re 
public.  The  jewel  was  so  unique  that  Robert  felt  sure 
that  it  must  have  a  history.  Partly  to  satisfy  his  own 
interest,  and  partly  to  make  good  his  escape  from  further 
talking,  he  turned  to  Alicia  and  said :  "  If  it  won't  be 
rude,  Miss  Frothingham,  I  should  much  like  to  ask  the 
history  of  the  jewel  you  are  wearing.  It  seems  to  me  the 
most  beautiful  thing  I  have  ever  seen.  I  am  sure  that  it 
must  have  a  history." 

Alicia   quickly  put   her   hand  up  to  the   jewel,   and 
167 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


looked  down  at  it  with  the  indulgent,  devouring  look  that 
people  give  only  to  possessions  they  care  a  great  deal  for. 
"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  said ;  "  it  has  a  history.  I 
will  tell  it  to  you  with  pleasure,  if  Mrs.  Costello  does  n't 
mind  hearing  it  still  another  time." 

"I  always  enjoy  hearing  it,"  said  Mrs.  Costello,  quickly, 
in  her  curious,  high-pitched  voice.  "  You  know  that,  my 
dear,  without  asking.  I  really  believe  you  like  to  make 
me  say  it." 

"  She  's  a  guileful  one,  Miss  Frothingham  is,"  threw  in 
Stephen,  in  a  judicial  tone. 

"I'm  not  at  all  guileful,"  responded  Alicia,  protest- 
ingly,  "  and  you  don't  deserve  to  hear  the  story.  But  I  '11 
tell  it  just  for  the  sake  of  the  others." 

"  Please  do,"  said  Stephen.  "  I  should  hate  to  have  the 
others  lose  it  just  because  I  've  been  naughty.  It  would  n't 
be  fair !  " 

Alicia  laughed.  "You  are  quite  incorrigible.  But  I 
shall  go  on.  When  I  was  in  India,  a  couple  of  years  ago, 
I  spent  several  weeks  with  some  English  friends  who  were 
stationed  at  Jaipur,  in  the  native  state  of  Rajputana.  You 
may  chance  to  know  what  a  place  for  gems  it  is.  They 
are  brought  there  from  all  over  India,  even  from  Ceylon. 
One  afternoon  an  Indian  gentleman  called  on  my  friends, 
and  it  fell  to  me  to  talk  to  him.  I  think  we  must  have 
chatted  for  nearly  two  hours,  and  all  the  time  about 
India.  I  had  never  seen  the  man  before.  When  he  finally 
left,  he  took  this  pale  blue  sapphire  out  of  the  folds  of  his 
turban,  and  begged  that  I  would  accept  it  as  a  souvenir 
of  our  talk.  It  is  very  valuable,  and  as  you  see,  quite 
flawless.  Naturally  I  declined  to  accept  it.  I  thanked  him 

168 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


over  and  over  again.  Then  I  asked  him,  out  of  sheer 
curiosity,  why  he  wanted  to  present  so  magnificent  a  gem 
to  me  —  an  entire  stranger.  The  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
1  It  is  because  you  love  India,'  he  said."  Alicia  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  hurried  on.  "  I  do  love  India,  passion 
ately,  but  there  are  others  who  love  her  quite  as  much, 
and  have  done  so  much  more  for  her.  I  could  not  take 
such  a  gift,  and  from  a  man  I  had  never  seen  before.  So, 
once  more,  I  absolutely  declined  —  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  too  bad  !  "  broke  in  Robert,  impulsively. 
"It  would  have  given  the  man  so  much  pleasure.  I  know 
just  how  he  would  have  felt !  " 

"  That  was  what  my  English  friends  said,"  continued 
Alicia.  "  They  told  me  that  he  was  a  very  poor  man.  This 
sapphire  was  the  last  article  of  any  great  value  that  he 
still  owned.  But  for  some  reason,  he  would  never  sell  it. 
If  I  had  accepted  it  as  a  gift,  they  said,  it  would  have 
made  him  very  happy.  I  was  leaving  Jaipur  the  next 
afternoon.  In  the  morning,  the  Indian  gentleman  called 
again,  and  this  time  on  me.  He  only  stopped  a  few  mo 
ments.  When  he  went  away,  he  took  out  the  sapphire  and 
urged  me  to  take  it.  I  could  not  get  out  of  it.  So,  very 
reluctantly,  I  did.  '  It  belongs  to  you,'  he  said,  4  because 
you  love  India.'  I  do  not  know  that  I  even  thanked  him. 
I  have  never  been  so  touched  by  any  gift.  When  I  looked 
up  and  tried  to  thank  him,  he  was  gone." 

"  That  was  right,"  cried  Donald,  enthusiastically.  "  It 
made  the  gift  a  poem !  " 

"  But  surely,"  said  the  practical  Stephen,  "  the  stone 
was  n't  mounted  in  this  wonderful  fashion  when  your 
Hindu  gentleman  handed  it  over." 

169 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


"  Of  course  not,"  Alicia  answered.  "  That  is  the  sec 
ond  part  of  its  history.  When  I  came  back  to  Europe,  I 
brought  the  stone  with  me.  But  I  really  did  n't  quite  know 
what  to  do  with  it.  I  simply  could  n't  have  it  mounted  in 
the  usual  commonplace  way.  So  I  kept  it  for  two  or  three 
months.  While  I  was  in  Paris,  I  met  Lalique.  Perhaps 
you  know  his  work  ?  He  is  truly  an  artist.  They  say  that 
some  day  he  will  be  ranked  with  Benvenuto  Cellini.  I 
told  Lalique  the  story  of  the  sapphire.  Then  I  gave  it  to 
him,  and  asked  him  to  mount  it  for  me  in  the  most  beauti 
ful  way  he  could.  I  thought  I  had  lost  it.  Lalique  kept  it 
for  a  whole  year.  But  when  he  brought  it  back,  it  was  the 
glorious  thing  I  have  here.  The  idea  is  wholly  Lalique's. 
I  wish  it  were  mine.  I  should  be  so  proud  of  it.  Every 
part  of  it  has  a  meaning.  The  sapphire  itself  stands,  of 
course,  for  hope.  The  basis  is  of  rock  crystal.  See  how 
wonderfully  clear  it  is.  That  means  purity.  The  angels 
leaning  on  the  sapphire  represent  the  winged  character 
of  all  aspiration.  They  are  made  of  ,translucent  enamel. 
Lalique  invented  it  himself.  Do  you  see  how  beautifully 
carved  they  are?  The  wings  are  just  common  horn,  but 
notice  how  very  right  the  color  is,  just  the  sort  of  grayish 
green  to  go  with  the  smoke-blue  of  the  enamel.  It  is  a 
fancy  of  Lalique's  to  bring  such  things  together.  He  likes 
the  contrast  and  the  range  of  color.  I  think  he 's  quite 
right  about  it.  I  like  to  feel  that  commonplace,  earthy 
things  can  be  transformed  by  superb  workmanship  into 
proper  company  for  the  rarest  gem.  Before  I  could  ask 
Lalique  how  much  he  meant  to  charge  me,  he  said  to  me, 
'I  want  you  to  accept  this  on  the  same  terms  that  you 
granted  the  Indian  gentleman,  and  for  the  same  or  a  simi- 

170 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


lar  reason.  I  give  it  to  you  because  you  love  France ! ' 
I  ought  to  be  a  very  grateful  woman,  ought  I  not  ?  Well, 
I  really  am.  I  never  saw  those  men  before,  either  of  them, 
and  I  have  never  seen  them  since.  I  value  my  jewel  as  if 
it  were  a  talisman.  It  is  so  very  beautiful,  and  it  always 
seems  to  me  the  very  symbol  of  human  generosity.  It 's 
an  interesting  history,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  sure  is,"  said  Stephen,  enthusiastically.  Then  he 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  examine  the  jewel.  Alicia  unclasped 
it  from  the  chain  and  handed  it  to  him.  Stephen  held  the 
jewel  with  great  care,  apparently,  but  in  an  unguarded 
moment,  as  he  looked  up  in  his  talk,  the  jewel  slipped 
from  his  fingers.  Robert  had  foreseen  such  a  possibility, 
and  sat  with  his  own  hands  outstretched  for  rescue.  He 
darted  forward  just  in  time  to  catch  the  jewel  and  save 
it  from  falling  to  the  floor. 

Alicia  made  no  outcry,  but  she  started  involuntarily 
and  turned  a  trifle  pale.  A  moment  later,  when  Robert 
handed  the  jewel  back  to  her  uninjured,  a  wave  of  almost 
painful  color  swept  over  her  face,  and  she  said  eagerly, 
"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much.  Now  I  shall  associate  your 
name  with  my  treasure.  An  Indian  gave  it  to  me ;  a 
Frenchman  mounted  it  for  me;  an  American  saved  it 
forme!" 

"  The  Germans  say,  do  they  not,  that  everything  per 
fect  comes  in  threes?"  suggested  Mrs.  Costello. 

"  To  make  the  story  quite  complete,"  said  Robert, 
lightly,  "  we  ought  all  to  have  been  strangers.  I  am 
almost  sorry  that  you  knew  me  before  to-day." 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  did,"  Alicia  answered  quickly. 
"  At  any  rate,  I  cannot  thank  you  enough." 

171 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  replied  Kobert.  "  Thank  you 
very  much  for  telling  us  the  story.  It  is  tremendously 
interesting." 

Stephen  had  been  too  chagrined  to  say  anything,  but 
now  he  spoke  up.  "  And  next  time,  Miss  Frothingham, 
when  a  man  whose  fingers  are  all  thumbs  asks  to  handle 
the  jewel,  don't  let  him.  It  is  n't  safe  !  " 

"  I  won't,"  Alicia  answered. 

Robert  rose  to  go,  and  Stephen  and  Donald  felt  obliged 
to  rise  with  him.  The  ladies  protested  that  it  was  still 
very  early,  but  Robert  ignored  the  remark  as  a  mere  for 
mality,  and  much  against  their  will,  dragged  his  two  friends 
off  with  him.  As  the  three  young  men  went  towards  their 
own  rooms,  both  Stephen  and  Donald  reviled  poor  Rob 
ert  for  breaking  up  the  party  so  early.  The  poet  was 
particularly  outspoken,  for  he  had  been  much  impressed 
by  both  women,  Mrs.  Costello  not  less  than  Alicia,  and 
wanted  to  see  more  of  them.  As  Robert  turned  in  to  his 
own  room,  Donald  called  after  him,  "  If  you  're  writing 
to  those  old  cousins  of  yours  at  Bolton,  just  tell  them  for 
me  that  you  've  been  mighty  disagreeable  ! " 

Robert's  retort  came  on  the  instant.  "  They  'd  never 
believe  anything  so  improbable !  " 

"  Snappy  work,  little  Pen,"  cried  Stephen,  with  a 
chuckle ;  "  you  're  coming  on.  And  say,  old  man,  I  'm 
eternally  grateful  to  you  for  catching  that  Franco-Asiatic 
bubble.  I  don't  care  to  think  how  I  'd  feel  if  I  'd  broken  it !" 

"  Don't  try,"  Robert  answered  cheerily.  "  I  felt  in  my 
bones  that  you  were  going  to  drop  it,  and  was  ready  for 
you.  So  it  was  all  right.  Good-night.  And  say  good 
night  to  the  poet." 

172 


ROBERT'S   LOVE-LETTER 


Robert  closed  his  door  for  the  night.  But  he  had  no 
intention  of  writing  to  his  cousins  at  Bolton.  He  meant 
to  finish  his  letter  to  Pauline.  He  took  off  his  dinner-coat 
and  got  into  his  more  comfortable  gray  sack-coat.  He  sat 
down  at  the  writing-table  full  of  fire  and  resolve.  He 
gathered  up  the  sheets  that  he  had  written  during  the 
afternoon,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  put  them  one 
side.  Then  he  got  out  some  fresh  paper  and  prepared 
to  start  a  new  letter.  He  put  a  fresh  pen  in  the  holder, 
and  tried  the  point  on  his  finger-nail.  Finally  he  dipped 
the  pen  into  the  ink,  and  got  as  far  as  the  date, "  Sunday, 
October  fifteenth."  He  toyed  with  the  pen  a  moment. 
Then  he  put  it  down  suddenly  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  He  realized  once  more  that  there  was  nothing  to 
say. 

It  was  fully  an  hour  before  Robert  lifted  his  head.  His 
face  showed  the  storm  through  which  he  had  been  passing. 
Slowly  he  gathered  up  the  closely  written  pages  of  Paul 
ine's  letter  and  very  carefully  and  deliberately  tore  them 
into  tiny  fragments.  He  put  them  all  into  the  fire,  and 
watched  until  the  last  fragment  had  burned  to  ashes  be 
fore  he  undressed  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  X 
INWARD  VOYAGES 

ROBERT  heard  nothing  from  the  Marshalls.  Donald  had 
frequent  letters  from  the  worshipful  Billy,  but  they  were 
full  of  the  life  at  Abbotsholme,  and  seldom  so  much  as 
mentioned  either  Pauline  or  his  father.  Robert  expected 
no  letters,  nor  did  he  expect  to  see  Pauline  until  he  reached 
Paris.  But  his  experiences  at  York  had  made  him  more 
at  sea  than  ever.  Between  Bowness  and  York  he  had  been 
restless  and  disturbed,  often  a  very  poor  traveling  com 
panion,  as  he  had  to  confess  to  himself,  but  at  least  he 
knew,  or  fancied  that  he  knew,  just  where  he  stood.  He 
believed  himself  to  be  hopelessly  in  love  with  Pauline.  He 
accepted  his  own  state  of  mind  quite  as  an  established  fact, 
and  never  so  much  as  questioned  it.  It  was  too  distinct  an 
experience  to  leave  him  in  any  doubt.  This  precipitate, 
perfectly  unreasonable  falling  in  love  with  a  comparative 
stranger  had  always  amused  him  in  other  men,  and  had 
even  filled  him  with  mingled  contempt  and  pity.  It  was 
something,  he  assured  himself,  that  would  never  happen 
to  him.  And  now,  without  warning,  it  was  his  own  portion 
in  all  its  bitter  sweetness,  and  had  indeed  become  the 
major  element  in  all  the  wonderful  experience  growing 
out  of  this  fateful  journey  to  Europe. 

So  much  had  happened  since  he  fell  sick  in  Boston  and 
had  suddenly  become  a  man  of  leisure,  that  when  most 
perplexed,  Robert  felt  momentarily  sure  that  it  was  all 
a  dream,  and  that  if  he  aroused  himself  a  bit,  he  would 

174 


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waken  at  his  old  desk  in  Doane  Street,  and  find  himself 
poring  over  half -added  columns  of  figures.  But  even  when 
the  feeling  was  strongest  and  the  perplexity  greatest,  he 
never  did  arouse  himself  in  just  that  way,  for  in  spite  of 
all  the  pain,  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  liked  the  en 
chantment,  and  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  had  no  desire 
to  have  done  with  the  dream.  He  would  have  changed  it, 
if  he  could,  he  would  have  had  some  assurance  of  love  on 
Pauline's  part,  but  he  would  not  have  given  up  the  dream 
for  any  consideration  he  could  imagine.  It  was  such  a 
glorious  thing  to  love  Pauline,  whatever  her  own  feelings 
might  be,  that  life,  without  this  supreme  emotion,  seemed 
too  poverty-stricken  for  words.  Whatever  happened,  this 
great  happiness  was  at  least  a  secure  possession. 

At  times,  Robert  was  even  aware  of  a  high  serenity. 
In  the  midst  of  his  restless  longing  there  came  this  feeling 
of  fulfilled  desire.  He  could  at  least  love,  —  no  one  could 
take  that  from  him.  He  even  assumed  that  Pauline  would 
never  care  for  him,  but  that  he  would  still  nurse  his  own 
love,  keep  her  image  bright  in  his  heart,  and  be  able  to 
meet  a  quiet,  lonely  old  age  with  an  inner  happiness  that 
would  make  it  endurable,  even  blessed. 

These  periods  of  serene  resignation  never  lasted  very 
long.  They  usually  came  when  he  was  alone,  generally  in 
the  silence  of  the  night,  when  they  half  took  the  form  of 
dreams.  Between  them  came  the  storm  and  stress  periods, 
times  when  Robert  found  it  hard  to  live  up  to  his  own  ideal 
of  politeness  and  be  sufficiently  alive  to  the  existence  of 
his  two  young  friends  to  be  even  a  passable  companion. 
Ecclesiastical  architecture  had  proved  itself  a  safe  refuge, 
but  there  were  whole  days  when  it  failed  him  utterly.  It 

175 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


was  highly  fortunate  that  the  supply  of  cathedrals  seemed 
to  keep  up  indefinitely.  Occasionally  they  were  inadequate 
as  distractions  from  his  own  absorbing  thought.  But  they 
served  to  administer  to  the  emotional  side  of  Robert's 
nature,  which  at  thirty-four  was  just  beginning  to  be 
aroused,  and  which  at  times  threatened  shipwreck. 

It  was  curious,  but  perhaps  wholly  natural,  that  any 
great  elation,  such  as  that  brought  about  by  the  glorious 
beauty  of  York  Minster  and  the  subtle  charm  of  the  ser 
vice,  was  apt  to  be  followed  by  an  abyss  of  loneliness  and 
despair.  The  very  heights  of  his  ecstasy  deepened  the  re 
action  of  pain.  It  seemed  to  Robert  cruel  in  the  extreme 
that  these  flights  of  the  spirit  had  to  be  accomplished  al 
ways  alone ;  that  when  they  ended  and  the  need  for  expres 
sion,  the  cry  of  the  palpitating  soul,  grew  most  imperative, 
there  was  nothing  but  loneliness  and  void.  In  these  entirely 
new  spiritual  excursions,  Robert  had  no  compass  and  no 
guide.  He  could  not  know  that  this  bewildering  mood,  at 
once  so  blissful  and  so  suffocating,  is  not  alone  the  mood 
of  the  lover,  but  quite  as  much  the  mood  of  the  artist, 
the  prelude  to  all  worldly  creation.  Had  he  known  how 
to  write  or  paint,  had  he  understood  music  or  sculpture, 
had  he  been  given  to  the  simplest  arts  of  invention,  he 
would  have  found  an  outlet  for  his  pent-up  mood,  and  in 
giving  expression  to  his  imprisoned  spirit,  he  would  have 
gained  light  and  freedom. 

But  this  side  of  things  was  quite  outside  of  Robert's 
experience.  Until  he  came  to  Europe,  he  had  not  even 
been  aware  that  he  was  so  keenly  alive  to  beauty.  His 
analysis  of  his  own  moods  had  not  gone  far  enough  to  dis 
close  the  artist  temper.  The  idea  of  creating  beauty  had 

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never  been  suggested  to  him.  Had  it  been,  he  would 
doubtless  have  scouted  it  as  the  veriest  mirage,  and  hon 
estly  enough  proclaimed  his  inability  and  helplessness. 

Between  Bowness  and  York  Robert  had  been  filled  with 
a  vague  unrest.  He  had  ascribed  it  all  to  one  thing,  to 
the  foregone  conclusion  that  Pauline  neither  loved  him 
nor  could  ever  be  expected  to  love  him.  At  any  moment 
during  that  time,  when  he  was  wandering  among  cathe 
drals  or  doing  Scottish  lakes,  could  he  have  been  assured 
to  the  contrary,  he  would  have  been  perfectly  happy,  and 
would  have  asked  no  more  of  fate.  He  would  have  counted 
himself  favored  of  the  gods.  But  this  assurance  never  came. 
The  more  Robert  brooded  over  the  situation,  the  less  prob 
able  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  ever  come.  And  yet 
the  dream  continued,  even  grew  in  intensity,  until  at  York 
it  reached  its  climax.  It  seemed  to  Robert  as  if  he  must 
risk  everything  and  that  he  must  know.  But  at  the  very 
flood,  when  he  came  to  pour  out  his  heart  to  Pauline 
on  paper,  and  to  lay  bare  his  inmost  soul,  the  wave  of  his 
great  emotion  had  been  broken  and  spent.  Robert  found 
that  he  was  not  even  sure  of  his  own  love,  and  that  at  the 
supreme  moment  he  had  nothing  sincere  to  say.  Such  a 
result  had  been  too  wholly  unexpected  to  be  taken  without 
question.  As  we  have  seen,  he  had  refused  to  accept  it, 
and  after  Mrs.  Costello's  dinner-party,  had  returned  to  his 
letter  with  an  ardor  even  greater  than  when  he  began  it. 
But  it  was  of  no  use.  In  that  silent,  motionless  hour  when 
Robert  sat  at  the  writing-table  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  battling  against  what  seemed  to  him  a  hideous 
truth,  he  had  been  worsted  at  every  turn.  Unwillingly, 
reproachfully  even,  he  had  slowly  admitted  to  himself  that 

177 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


his  dream  had  been  a  mistake,  and  that  down  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  he  did  not  love  Pauline;  that  what  he  felt  had 
been  a  great  loneliness,  but  that  it  had  not  been  love. 
When  the  last  fragment  of  his  poor  love-letter  had  turned 
to  ashes,  he  knew  that  he  had  accepted  the  truth,  and  that 
he  must  face  it.  Having  decided  that  Pauline  could  never 
come  to  care  for  him,  it  would  have  been  only  reasonable 
if  Robert  had  felt  a  great  relief  and  a  sense  of  renewed 
peace  when  he  came  to  realize  that  neither  did  he  really 
care  for  her.  But  the  human  heart  is  not  reasonable.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  highly  unreasonable.  Instead  of  peace 
and  a  renewed  and  more  genuine  interest  in  life,  Robert 
felt  in  the  days  that  succeeded  York  a  still  more  desperate 
unhappiness. 

Our  three  young  friends  left  Mrs.  Costello  and  Miss 
Frothingham  at  York,  and  journeyed  southward  towards 
Oxford.  It  had  been  agreed  that  some  time  within  a  week 
they  should  all  meet  at  the  Mitre.  The  young  men  trav 
eled  slowly,  taking  in  Ely  and  Lincoln,  but  it  was  diffi 
cult  for  Robert  even  to  feign  an  interest  in  ecclesiastical 
architecture,  much  less  to  feel  it.  In  spite  of  all  the  pain 
of  the  experience,  it  seemed  to  Robert  that  he  had  been 
supremely  happy  when  he  thought  that  he  loved  Pauline. 
He  had  had  no  conception  of  the  desolation  of  his  pre 
sent  state  of  mind.  With  love,  or  it  might  be  the  illusion 
of  love,  taken  out  of  life,  it  hardly  seemed  to  him  worth 
while  to  go  on  living.  In  vain  the  New  England  con 
science  reminded  him  of  duty  and  all  the  grave  responsi 
bilities  of  life.  A  little  earlier,  and  it  would  have  added 
the  responsibilities  of  wealth ;  but  Robert  had  now  ceased 
to  regard  six  thousand  a  year  as  wealth,  and  had  come  to 

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look  upon  his  present  income  as  a  very  modest  affair  after 
all,  and  belonging  more  properly,  in  part  at  least,  to  his 
cousins  at  Bolton,  rather  than  to  himself. 

To  have  loved,  and  then  to  have  stopped  loving,  is  for 
all  of  us  a  tragedy  of  the  first  order.  To  Robert  it  was 
well-nigh  insupportable.  His  evident  distress  alarmed 
Stephen,  and  in  the  absence  of  any  visible  cause  for  it, 
made  him  think  that  Robert's  recovery  had  perhaps  been 
too  rapid  to  be  quite  permanent.  Both  Stephen  and  Donald 
urged  Robert  to  see  a  physician,  but  he  assured  them  that 
it  was  only  a  temporary  set-back,  and  that  he  would  soon 
be  all  right  again.  He  did  agree,  however,  to  take  his 
sight-seeing  more  moderately.  Stephen  would  not  consent 
to  leave  Robert  alone.  He  sent  Donald  off  on  all  sorts  of 
improving  expeditions,  but  remained  himself  at  the  hotel 
with  Robert,  reading  to  him,  or  chatting  to  him  about 
social  and  political  matters  at  home.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  the  sight-seeing  had  begun  to  pall  on  Robert.  He 
enjoyed  this  quiet  intercourse  with  a  well-informed  and 
thoroughly  wholesome  mind  much  more  than  the  ceaseless 
round  of  action  upon  which  they  had  all  so  lately  been 
embarked.  At  Oxford  he  was  especially  listless.  It  had 
been  one  of  the  places  that  he  most  wanted  to  see,  but 
when  they  got  there,  not  even  Stephen's  and  Donald's 
enthusiasm  could  warm  his  own  interest  beyond  a  very 
tepid  point.  There  was,  indeed,  physical  cause  for  this 
depression  aside  from  the  emotional  crisis  through  which 
Robert  had  been  passing.  His  rapid  recovery  had  been 
largely  due  to  the  open-air  life  on  the  steamer,  and  to  the 
bracing  atmosphere  of  the  Welsh  and  Scottish  uplands. 
The  midland  and  southern  counties  of  England  offered  no 

179 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


such  tonic.  In  Oxford  itself  one  can  take  but  a  melancholy 
and  retrospective  view  of  life.  The  surrounding  marshes 
rob  the  air  of  any  contemporary  ardor,  and  account  in 
some  measure  for  the  conservative  and  reactionary  atti 
tude  which  characterizes  Oxford  thought. 

As  soon  as  he  could,  Robert  aroused  himself  and  took 
a  more  active  part  in  all  the  sight-seeing.  Left  to  him 
self,  he  would  hardly  have  made  the  effort,  but  when  he 
realized  that  Stephen  was  remaining  at  home  with  him 
such  a  large  part  of  the  day,  and  would  remain  in  spite  of 
all  he  could  say,  the  New  England  conscience  got  hold  of 
a  powerful  lever,  and  spurred  him  on  to  much  of  his  old- 
time  activity. 

For  Stephen's  sake,  and  to  head  off  inquiries  which 
might  easily  be  embarrassing,  Robert  expressed  as  lively 
an  interest  in  the  beautiful  old  town  as  he  possibly  could. 
And,  indeed,  in  spite  of  the  moist,  depressing  climate, 
he  found  much  to  stir  him  in  the  penetrating,  abiding 
beauty  of  Oxford.  He  yielded  himself  to  it  unreservedly, 
allowing  the  intoxicating  langour  of  the  place  to  still  his 
unrest  and  to  lull  him  into  a  spiritual  slumber. 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Costello  and  Miss  Frothingham  ar 
rived  at  the  Mitre,  Robert  had  so  far  recovered  his  poise 
that  he  was  genuinely  glad  to  see  them,  and  could  enjoy 
the  new  life  and  fresh  interests  which  they  imported  into 
the  little  circle.  Neither  woman  took  the  place  of  Pauline, 
in  those  halcyon  days  which  now  seemed  removed  by 
months  instead  of  by  weeks,  but  both  women  made  Paul 
ine  seem  more  and  more  remote,  as  if  she  belonged  to  a 
chapter  long  since  completely  closed.  Robert's  own  thoughts 
seldom  dwelt  upon  Pauline.  He  would  hardly  have  wel- 

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corned  a  letter  from  her  now,  or  even  been  glad  to  see  her. 
He  bore  her  no  ill-will,  as  indeed  he  had  no  right  to,  for 
her  part  in  his  sufferings  had  been  both  unintentional  and 
unconscious.  It  was  merely  that  she  had  110  active  part  in 
his  life,  and  consequently  seldom  came  into  his  thoughts. 
In  a  way  his  thoughts  were  less  wholesome,  for  in  spite  of 
all  his  efforts  to  the  contrary,  they  dwelt  for  a  time  almost 
wholly  upon  himself.  What  he  was  chiefly  conscious  of 
was  a  great  and  overwhelming  loneliness.  He  had  had  a 
comrade,  albeit  imaginary,  and  he  had  lost  her.  He  felt 
that  he  would  never  find  another  comrade  ;  that  he  had 
missed  something  essential  out  of  life. 

Meanwhile  Robert  puzzled  both  Mrs.  Costello  and 
Alicia.  They  were  even  more  puzzled  than  at  York.  Robert 
tried  to  act  the  part  of  an  agreeable  friend,  for  he  had  a 
deep  respect  for  both  women,  and  felt  instinctively  that 
they  had  much  to  give  him.  But  his  effort  was  wholly 
devoid  of  any  gallantry,  for  it  included  Stephen  and  Donald 
quite  as  genuinely  as  it  did  the  two  ladies.  He  was  con 
siderably  more  successful  than  he  himself  fancied.  As  at 
York,  his  very  detachment  added  a  distinction  to  his  man 
ners  which  gave  them  all  the  quality  of  a  rare  breeding. 
What  Robert  was  trying  to  do  was  in  fact  to  ignore  him 
self,  and  that  is  at  bottom  of  all  that  is  finest  in  manners 
and  morals.  Robert  was  not  doing  it  on  any  theory  of  right 
conduct.  It  was  the  only  method  by  which  he  could  act 
his  part.  When  he  thought  of  himself,  he  was  unhappy 
and  not  at  all  companionable.  It  was  only  when  he  was 
alone  that  he  allowed  himself  this  more  than  doubtful 
luxury.  When  he  was  with  the  others,  he  tried  and  often 
succeeded  in  quite  ignoring  himself.  It  seems  a  little  thing, 

181 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


but  in  truth  it  is  the  secret  of  very  large  issues.  Robert's 
natural  powers  were  limited,  but  such  as  they  were,  they 
were  all  set  free.  Not  one  of  the  party,  not  even  Stephen 
with  all  his  rare  common  sense,  observed  so  keenly  as 
Robert.  No  detail  seemed  to  escape  him.  More  than  any 
one  else,  Robert  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  each  event,  not 
merely  its  spectator.  In  his  relations  with  the  others,  Robert 
stood  apparently  aloof,  quite  removed  from  anything  like 
familiarity,  and  yet  curiously  enough  he  achieved  an  inti 
macy  with  each  that  made  each  one  turn  to  him  instinc 
tively.  He  became  the  gentle  pivot  upon  which  the  party 
swung.  All  general  remarks  seemed,  as  at  the  York  din 
ner-party,  to  be  addressed  to  him.  Each  expected  him  to 
sympathize  with  them  in  all  their  pet  enthusiasms  and  all 
their  pet  aversions.  No  one  voiced  the  feeling,  but  to  each, 
in  rather  a  different  way,  it  seemed  as  if  Robert  were  a 
light,  a  flame,  something  more  alive  than  the  ordinary  run 
of  men.  Robert  himself  had  turned  his  back  upon  all  in 
trospection,  in  the  company  of  others.  When  he  thought 
about  himself,  he  was  unhappy  and  dull,  and  so  he  had 
stopped  thinking.  It  was  a  simple  remedy. 

But  however  tragic  our  mood,  however  close  we  hug  some 
pet  misery,  we  all  have  a  saving  instinct  for  happiness. 
Robert  did  not  analyze  the  reason,  did  not  even  state  the 
fact  to  himself,  but  his  nature  was  essentially  sound,  and 
this  instinct  for  happiness  had  been  outraged,  but  not  im 
paired.  It  led  him  quite  unconsciously  to  shun  being  alone, 
and  to  seek  the  company  of  the  others.  He  remained  with 
Stephen  and  Donald  in  their  room  later  than  had  been  his 
wont.  He  joined  them  earlier  in  the  morning.  He  talked 
to  Mrs.  Costello  and  Alicia  whenever  they  appeared  in  the 

182 


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public  drawing-room.  He  even  cultivated  a  taste  for  after 
noon  tea* 

The  stay  at  Oxford  had  been  limited  to  a  week.  From 
there  our  three  young  friends  were  to  catch  very  brief 
glimpses  of  Cambridge  and  London,  and  then  betake  them 
selves  all  unwillingly  to  Dover,  there  to  separate,  Stephen 
returning  to  Boston  and  the  law,  Donald  going  on  to  Ber 
lin  and  his  studies  in  German  literature,  Robert  journey 
ing  to  Paris  and  Italy  for  such  adventures  as  might  befall. 
The  ladies  remained  at  Oxford,  but  half  expected  to  see 
Robert  some  time  before  he  left  Italy.  It  had  been  a 
pleasant  encounter,  and  the  parting  was  full  of  cheer  and 
good  wishes. 

After  the  men  had  gone,  the  ladies  were  almost  sur 
prised  to  find  how  much  they  missed  them.  It  was  Mrs. 
Costello  who  voiced  the  feeling,  after  they  had  retired  to 
their  own  drawing-room  in  the  evening.  "  It 's  quite  sur 
prising,  Alicia,  how  much  I  miss  those  young  men.  I  had 
rather  a  feeling,  you  know,  that  they  were  going  to  be 
an  intrusion.  In  the  Minster,  they  seemed  to  me  rather 
crude  and  unattractive.  But  they  were  very  nice  when  one 
got  to  know  them,  and  really  I  liked  them  better  every 
day.  How  do  you  feel  about  them,  —  do  you,  too,  miss 
them?" 

"  I  never  miss  any  one  when  I  have  you,  Carissima," 
Alicia  answered  fondly. 

"  I  think,"  continued  Mrs.  Costello,  in  her  high,  clear 
voice,  "  that  your  friend,  Mr.  Pendexter,  is  quite  a  remark 
able  person,  quite  remarkable.  I  cannot  quite  analyze  his 
charm,  but  he  certainly  has  charm,  don't  you  think  so  ? 
He  has  no  accomplishments,  as  far  as  I  could  find  out. 

183 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


He  does  n't  sketch,  he  does  n't  play,  he  does  n't  sing,  he 
does  n't  speak  one  foreign  language,  —  in  fact,  he  does  n't 
always  speak  faultless  English.  According  to  his  own  ac 
count  of  himself,  he  has  had  no  advantages  as  they  are 
commonly  rated,  and  yet,  do  you  know,  Alicia,  I  cannot 
recall  any  man,  not  even  the  Chevalier,  whose  whole  bear 
ing  gives  the  impression  of  such  distinction  and  such  per 
fect  breeding.  It  is  really  wonderful  the  way  he  carried 
himself,  the  way  he  met  every  situation  without  sacrificing 
his  own  integrity.  The  Pendexters  are  a  very  good  old 
family,  but  that  would  not  account  for  this  young  man.  I 
think  his  mother  must  have  been  a  gentlewoman  of  more 
than  ordinary  quality.  He  seems  to  me  a  very  old  soul,  just 
waking  up.  Does  he  seem  so  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  Alicia  answered.  "  As  a  man,  he 
seemed  to  me  very  young,  the  youngest  of  the  three,  at 
least  in  experience,  but  I  am  rather  puzzled  about  his 
spiritual  make-up." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  is  simpatica"  said  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello ;  "  that  would  account  for  his  charm  in  the  absence 
of  any  tangible  accomplishments.  In  Italy,  I  am  sure  they 
will  call  him  simpatica.  But,  Alicia  dear,  why  did  you 
never  present  him  to  me  on  the  steamer,  and  the  other 
young  men  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  dear  Wise  One,  I  did  n't  think 
they  were  quite  worth  while !  I  played  shuffle-board  with 
them,  you  know,  because  I  simply  had  to  have  the  exer 
cise,  and  they  needed  a  fourth ;  but  I  managed  to  see  very 
little  of  them  aside  from  that.  Sometimes  Mr.  Pendexter 
tried  to  talk  to  me.  But  he  was  really  too  naive.  His  atti 
tude  towards  the  world  seemed  to  be  one  of  constant  sur- 

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prise  and  wonder.  We  didn't  wonder  about  the  same 
things,  so  we  could  n't  hit  it  off  very  well." 

Mrs.  Costello  laughed,  "  Alicia  dear,  sometimes  I  think 
you  are  very  exacting.  All  science  begins  in  wonder.  You 
ought  to  have  taken  the  poor  boy  in  hand,  and  made  a 
Faraday  out  of  him.  That  is  what  the  Master  would  have 
done.  But  Mr.  Pendexter  does  n't  at  all  agree  with  your 
uncomplimentary  picture  of  him." 

"  No,"  said  Alicia,  "  I  was  quite  wrong  about  him.  Or 
rather,  I  believe  that  something  has  happened  to  him. 
He  was  entirely  different  at  York  from  on  the  steamer. 
And  still  different  again  here  at  Oxford.  You  must  have 
noticed  that !  I  have  a  theory  about  him.  Would  you  like 
to  know  what  my  theory  is  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear." 

"  To  hear  us,  one  might  fancy  that  we  were  two  old 
gossips,  shredding  our  neighbors  into  very  small  bits ! " 

"  No,  not  if  one  were  discriminating,"  said  Mrs.  Cos 
tello,  quietly.  "  It  is  not  gossip  to  talk  about  the  essential 
qualities  of  people.  It's  only  gossip  when  one  discusses 
the  petty,  unimportant  things." 

Alicia  laughed  merrily.  "  That  is  a  comforting  distinc 
tion,  at  any  rate,  you  dear  Wise  One.  Well,  my  theory  is 
that  something  happened  to  Mr.  Pendexter  after  he  left 
the  steamer,  and  that  whatever  it  was,  the  impression 
deepened  still  further  after  he  left  York.  I  don't  know 
what  it  was,  but  it  was  something  that  stirred  him  to  the 
very  depths.  Then,  here  at  Oxford,  something  very  un 
usual  happened.  I  think  I  know  what  this  was,  though 
you  may  not  agree  with  my  theory." 

Alicia  paused  rather  absent-mindedly  and  sat  looking 
185 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


into  the  fire.  Mrs.  Costello  waited  for  a  time  and  then  in 
terrupted  her  young  friend  by  remarking,  "  I  can  hardly 
tell,  my  dear,  whether  I  agree  with  you  or  not,  until  I  hear 
what  your  theory  is !  " 

"  Of  course  you  can't,  Carissima,"  Alicia  said,  arousing 
herself.  "  Do  forgive  my  stupidity.  I  quite  forgot  that  I 
was  not  thinking  aloud.  My  theory  is  that  Mr.  Pendexter 
met  some  deep  sorrow,  the  death  of  a  friend  or  something 
of  that  sort,  and  in  trying  to  grapple  with  it  had  the  great 
good  fortune  to  hit  upon  the  superconscious.  I  think  that 
quite  without  knowing  it  he  entered  at  times  into  the  third 
stage  of  consciousness,  and  lost  all  sense  of  his  own  per 
sonality.  You  remember  that  when  we  liked  him  best,  he 
seemed  utterly  impersonal,  quite  unconscious  of  himself 
and  of  all  other  persons.  Apparently  he  knew  only  what 
was  happening,  just  the  event  itself,  and  in  the  curious 
completeness  of  his  knowledge,  he  gave  some  hint  of  the 
cosmic  consciousness.  I  know  this  is  a  bold  theory  to  apply 
to  such  a  person  as  Mr.  Pendexter,  but  it 's  the  only  one 
that  will  account  for  the  wonderful  change  that  took  place 
in  him,  and  for  his  perfect  manners.  On  the  steamer  Mr. 
Pendexter  had  none  of  the  ease  of  Mr.  Morse  or  of  Mr. 
Fergusson.  Here  at  Oxford,  you  remember,  Mr.  Pendexter 
was  more  self-possessed  than  either  of  them.  Sometimes  I 
felt  that  he  went  ahead  of  my  own  aplomb,  and  almost 
ranked  with  you !  " 

"  Alicia,  you  are  a  shameless  flatterer,"  protested  Mrs. 
Costello.  "  But  about  Mr.  Pendexter,  I  hardly  know.  He 
has  never  been  with  very  evolved  people.  He  told  me  so 
himself,  and  asked  many  questions  about  the  initiate  life, 
rather  naive  questions,  you  know.  Apparently  he  had  never 

186 


INWARD   VOYAGES 


come  in  contact  with  any  subtleties  of  thought.  The  super- 
conscious  hardly  comes  without  one's  knowing  about  it, 
and  working  for  it.  Mr.  Pendexter  has  never  had  a  Master. 
Indeed,  I  once  asked  him,  for  he  made  a  remark  that 
showed  so  much  insight  that  I  thought  for  the  moment 
that  he  must  have  found  a  Master.  But  he  said  not  unless 
I  called  Emerson  a  Master." 

"  That  is  true,"  Alicia  answered.  "And  that  is  the  won 
derful  part  about  it.  Mr.  Pendexter  is  curiously  honest 
and  simple.  My  theory  is  that  this  unusual  childlike 
goodness  brought  him  into  the  superconscious  without  his 
knowing  it.  He  would  probably  be  vastly  surprised  if  he 
could  hear  our  talk.  I  even  doubt  whether  he  would  un 
derstand  the  mere  terms.  He  just  hit  upon  the  fact  for 
himself." 

"Perhaps,"  responded  Mrs.  Costello.  "The  Master 
would  delight  in  such  a  man,  and  could  help  him  so 
much." 

"  I  really  feel  that  we  ought  to  have  done  more  for  Mr. 
Pendexter,"  Alicia  said.  "I  hope  that  we  shall  see  him  in 
Italy,  and  have  another  chance." 

As  Mrs.  Costello  made  no  answer,  Alicia  looked  at  her 
attentively.  Mrs.  Costello  had  closed  her  eyes,  and  her 
face  had  all  the  mystery  of  a  mask.  It  was  serene  and 
beautiful,  but  quite  motionless.  Alicia  understood  this 
mood,  and  waited  quietly  for  her  friend  to  come  back  from 
her  trance-like  meditation.  It  was  at  least  ten  minutes 
before  Mrs.  Costello  opened  her  eyes.  Her  face  had  a  look 
of  immortal  youth  about  it,  and  when  she  smiled  it  seemed 
to  reflect  some  inner  light.  But  she  seemed  not  to  be  aware 
that  any  time  had  passed. 

187 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"We  shall  see  Mr.  Peridexter  again,  I  am  very  sure," 
she  said,  quite  as  if  there  had  been  no  break  in  the  talk. 
"I  will  ask  him  to  come  to  us  in  Boston,  and  perhaps 
spend  some  months." 

"  Carissima,  you  are  a  dear ! "  cried  Alicia,  enthusiasti 
cally.  "Nothing  could  happen  to  him  better  than  that! 
It  will  almost  make  up  for  his  not  having  a  college  educa 
tion.  He  seems  to  regret  so  keenly  that  he  never  went  to 
college.  I  asked  him  one  day  whether  he  would  not  like 
to  study  here  at  Oxford  —  " 

"  That  would  never  do,"  objected  Mrs.  Costello.  "  He 
would  be  quite  out  of  place  here." 

"  Yes.  That 's  just  what  he  said.  He  said  that  he  would 
rather  not  study  at  all  than  study  here.  But  you  could 
never  guess  his  reason." 

"  Then  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Costello,  smiling. 

"  He  said  that  Oxford  is  snobbish,  [that  he  would  n't 
come  here  himself  or  let  any  friend  come  here,  for  of  the 
two,  it  seemed  to  him  that  snobbishness  is  worse  than 
ignorance." 

"He  is  quite  right,"  Mrs.  Costello  answered.  "It's 
much  worse  than  ignorance.  But  it  was  clever  of  him  in 
such  a  short  time  to  detect  the  poison  in  our  beautiful 
Oxford.  Did  you  put  him  up  to  it  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  questioned  Alicia.  "  No,  I  'd  hardly  recognized  it 
myself.  At  first,  I  tried  to  defend  Oxford.  But  my  argu 
ments  were  not  at  all  convincing.  In  fact,  they  failed  to 
convince  even  me  when  once  the  possibility  had  been  ad 
mitted.  Mr.  Pendexter  said  it  was  like  malaria  and  got 
into  the  blood.  He  thought  that  one  could  n't  stop  here 
and  breathe  this  atmosphere  without  being  infected." 

188 


INWARD  VOYAGES 


"  If  that 's  the  case,  we  shall  both  have  to  be  taking 
some  social  quinine." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  realize  myself,"  continued  Alicia, 
"  that,  splendid  as  it  is  here,  one  works  against  a  certain 
alien  pressure.  I  have  to  take  hold  of  myself  every  little 
while  and  brush  certain  cobwebs  out  of  my  spirit!  " 

"  Which  means,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Costello,  "  that 
when  the  work  at  the  library  is  done,  you  would  like  to 
be  whisked  over  to  the  Continent,  and  draw  a  long  breath 
once  more." 

"  It  means  just  that,  astute  Carissima ;  and  now  shall 
we  read  a  bit  and  get  ready  for  bed  ?  It 's  your  turn  to 
read  to-night." 

Alicia  brought  the  book,  and  Mrs.  Costello  read  in  a 
melodious,  high-pitched  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from 
neither  woman,  but  from  the  air  above. 

It  made  the  words  of  their  chosen  philosopher  sound 
like  the  voice  of  an  oracle. 


CHAPTEK  XI 
NEW  ENVIRONMENTS 

IT  was  a  gray,  drizzly  afternoon,  and  Saturday.  In  addi 
tion,  it  was  cold,  and  the  whole  of  southeast  England 
seemed  as  cheerless  and  dispiriting  as  could  well  be  im 
agined.  The  third-class  carriages  on  the  early  afternoon 
train  from  Canterbury  to  Dover  were  not  heated.  In  one 
of  them,  our  three  young  friends  sat  somewhat  forlornly, 
trying  to  take  an  intelligent  interest  in  such  glimpses  of 
scenery  as  the  gray  mistiness  allowed,  and  to  keep  up  some 
semblance  of  friendly  talk.  But  in  neither  effort  did  they 
meet  with  any  marked  success.  Their  little  attempts  at 
pleasantry  sounded  like  jokes  at  a  funeral.  Back  of  every 
thing  else,  one  important  fact  protruded  itself,  —  Stephen 
was  taking  the  Vaderland  at  Dover  that  very  evening, 
and  the  triple  alliance,  as  he  himself  had  named  it,  was 
about  coming  to  an  end. 

Donald  was  gloomy  and  silent.  Stephen  was  gloomy 
and  mildly  philosophic.  Robert  was  gloomy  and  rebel 
lious. 

When  the  train  reached  Dover,  the  drizzle  had  thick 
ened  to  a  steady  rain,  the  streets  were  a  succession  of  pud 
dles,  and  the  dismal  station  was  more  dismal  than  ever. 
The  young  men  hunted  up  their  trunks  and  consigned 
them  to  their  respective  destinations.  It  had  grown  quite 
dark.  The  sputtering  street  lamps  added  to  the  prevail 
ing  gloom  by  making  it  a  trifle  more  visible.  The  three 

190 


NEW  ENVIRONMENTS 


men  squeezed  into  an  asthmatic  cab  and  drove  off  through 
the  dark  ugliness  to  the  Hotel  Alexandra.  The  discom 
fort  and  depression  of  the  party  had  now  reached  such  a 
pitch  that  the  American  sense  of  humor,  never  far  sub 
merged,  came  to  the  rescue  and  brought  them  to  the  little 
hotel  in  somewhat  improved  spirits. 

But  every  arrangement  jarred.  Would  the  gentlemen 
have  rooms  ?  —  yes,  but  only  two  of  them.  Would  the 
gentlemen  have  dinner  at  seven  ?  —  yes,  but  only  two  of 
them.  And  so  it  went  through  all  the  small  range  of  do 
mestic  affairs,  that  in  spite  of  the  rain  outside  could  have 
been  so  jolly  had  they  only  been  for  three,  but  that  were 
so  dismal  when  one  was  abstracted. 

Robert's  room  was  in  the  front  of  the  house,  and  had  a 
bright  fire  burning  on  the  hearth.  As  the  windows  com 
manded  a  view  of  the  long  pier  and  the  approaching 
waterway,  the  friends  sat  there  together,  without  other 
light  than  the  fire,  and  watched  for  the  incoming  of  the 
steamer.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  they  would  have 
had  so  much  to  say  that  the  room  would  have  rung  with 
talk  and  laughter.  But  now,  so  near  to  this  unwelcome 
separation,  nothing  seemed  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
a  suitable  topic  of  conversation.  Between  Stephen  and 
Donald  there  had  long  been  a  very  deep  friendship.  Be 
tween  Stephen  and  Robert,  as  we  have  seen,  there  had 
sprung  up  a  genuine  affection  that  promised  to  be  lasting. 
Robert's  timidity  had  long  since  vanished.  He  was  silent 
now,  not  from  any  embarrassment,  but  rather  from  a  feel 
ing  that  the  situation  expressed  itself  better  without  any 
words.  He  realized  that  Europe  would  be  manifestly  diffi 
cult  with  Stephen  gone,  and  a  trifle  more  difficult  still  on 

191 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Monday  when  he  and  Donald  parted  at  Calais,  Donald 
bound  for  Berlin  and  he.  for  Paris. 

Robert  put  out  his  hand  in  the  darkness  and  laid  hold 
of  Stephen's.  The  answering  pressure  said  more  to  both 
men  than  any  amount  of  talk  could  have  done.  It  told 
each  man  that  in  the  other  he  had  a  veritable  friend. 
Then  a  curious  thing  happened.  Robert  had  been  con 
scious  of  a  moisture  about  his  eyes,  and  a  decidedly 
unpleasant  lump  in  his  throat.  But  now  he  was  aware  of 
a  genuine  lightness  of  spirits.  It  was  as  if  he  had  said 
good-by,  —  the  disagreeable  part  was  all  over,  and  he 
was  now  free  to  enjoy  his  friend's  company  as  an  extra 
favor  granted  by  fate.  He  was  glad  to  have  it  so,  and  to 
find  himself  able  to  talk  naturally  and  pleasantly,  for  the 
situation  had  been  growing  irksome.  Instead  of  enjoying 
these  last  few  moments  together,  all  three  men  had  been 
wishing  that  the  steamer  would  only  come  and  go,  and  the 
dreaded  moment  be  over. 

"When  you  get  home,  Stephen  lad,"  said  Robert, "  you 
will  probably  have  next  to  nothing  to  do.  Your  few  stray 
clients  will  have  found  other  more  stay-at-home  attorneys, 
the  old  man  will  have  got  used  to  getting  on  without  you, 
and  altogether  you  will  feel  yourself  a  superfluous  mem 
ber  of  the  community.  Ten  to  one  you  will  wish  yourself 
back  here  with  Donald  and  me  — " 

"  I  do  already,"  answered  Stephen,  heartily.  "  But  I 
don't  see  what 's  to  be  done  about  it." 

"  That 's  because  you  interrupted  me.  I  was  about  to 
propose  that  when  these  sad  circumstances  come  about, 
and  time  hangs  heavy  on  your  hands,  you  stir  yourself  and 
do  a  score  or  more  errands  for  me." 

192 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


"  Sure,"  said  Stephen,  in  his  old  cheery  tone ;  "  I  '11  do 
threescore  and  ten,  if  need  be.  What  are  they?  Fire 
ahead." 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  you  might  go  out  to  Bolton 
some  Sunday  afternoon,  and  look  up  my  three  cousins." 

"  Are  they  all  pretty? "  asked  Stephen. 

"  Yes ;  they  are  all  rather  pretty,  I  should  say.  But 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  are  to  go  wholly  as 
my  messenger,  and  not  for  your  own  pleasure." 

"  I  like  that,"  said  Stephen ;  "  and  wear  green  glass 
goggles  so  as  to  keep  my  mind  strictly  to  the  errand  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  it's  so  difficult  for  you  to  concentrate  your 
mind  as  all  that." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  say  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  who  comes  to  the  door.  If  the 
oldest  one  comes,  —  that 's  Martha,  —  you  will  bow  and 
say,  '  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Pendexter.  I  am  Stephen 
Morse,  and  have  come  to  bring  you  a  message  from  your 
cousin,  Robert  Pendexter.'  If  the  second  one  comes,  you 
will  say,  4  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Mattie,  —  ' ; 

"  And  not  bow  ?  "  put  in  Stephen. 

"Also  bow.  And  if  the  youngest  one  comes  to  the 
door,  you  will  bow  your  very  prettiest  and  say,  4  How  do 
you  do,  Miss  Priscilla.  I  am  Stephen  Morse,'  etc." 

"  But  how  in  thunder  shall  I  know  which  is  which  ?  " 

"  Very  easily,  if  you  use  your  wits.  Priscilla  is  the 
prettiest,  Martha  the  most  intellectual,  and  Mattie  the 
jolliest." 

"  As  a  lawyer,"  protested  Stephen,  "  I  submit  that  if 
they  don't  line  up  and  give  some  evidence  of  their  beauty, 
intellect,  and  humor  for  my  judicial  wit  to  act  upon,  I 

193 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


don't  see  how  I  am  to  carry  out  your  instructions.  They 
are  not  practical,  sir.  And  like  as  not  the  inaid  will  come 
to  the  door  anyway.'* 

"  Not  if  you  go  on  Sunday  afternoon.  The  maid  will 
be  out,  and  they  only  keep  one." 

"  Well,  granted  that  I  overcome  the  difficulties,"  said 
Stephen,  "  what  message  am  I  to  carry  to  these  three 
beautiful  sisters  ?  " 

"  You  are  to  tell  them  all  about  our  trip,  for  they  've 
never  been  to  Europe,  and  it  will  entertain  them  im 
mensely.  And  if  you  can't  do  it  in  one  afternoon,  you 
will  have  to  go  twice.  But  that  won't  matter,  since  you 
will  have  so  much  time  on  your  hands." 

"  Lord,  no,"  said  Stephen.  "  And  what 's  the  next 
errand?" 

"  The  next  is  for  a  week-day  afternoon,  just  to  while 
away  the  tedium  while  you  are  waiting  for  clients.  You 
might  go  around  and  call  on  Messrs.  Watson  and  Reed, 
the  famous  coffee  and  spice  merchants  in  Doane  Street." 

"  And  talk  about  the  weather  ?  "  put  in  Stephen. 

"  No  ;  something  more  worth  while.  You  can  talk  about 
me." 

"  And  tell  them  how  happy  you  are  not  to  be  in  their 
very  agreeable  company  any  longer  ?  " 

"  Precisely,"  said  Robert ;  "  only  put  it  more  diplo 
matically.  Tell  them  that  with  my  present  advantage  of 
over  three  months'  perspective,  the  coffee  and  spice  enter 
prise  seems  to  me  a  hopelessly  dull  affair,  and  that  I 
should  advise  them  to  save  their  own  souls  —  if  they  are 
not  already  lost  —  by  pulling  out  of  the  business  and  leav 
ing  it  to  the  junior  clerks.  You  might  offer  to  make  out 

194 


NEW    ENVIRONMENTS 


the  necessary  legal  papers  to  settle  the  transfer,  and  then 
they  would  be  sure  of  your  own  disinterestedness." 

"  Oh,  little  Pen,  you  're  a  great  one.  Shall  I  give  your 
love  to  the  lady  typist,  and  tell  her  that  when  you  get 
home  you  mean  to  come  and  marry  her  ?  " 

"Not  by  a  great  deal.  When  you  see  her,  you  will 
understand  why.  The  lady  typist  they  had  when  I  was 
there  looked  as  if  she  fed  on  ten-penny  nails.  But  you 
might  give  my  love  to  the  office  boy,  Dennis  Sullivan. 
He  was  the  only  decent  fellow  in  the  bunch.  Tell  him  I 
mean  to  look  him  up  just  as  soon  as  I  get  home,  and  that 
I  'm  downright  ashamed  of  myself  never  to  have  written 
to  him." 

"  I  thought  you  had,"  said  Donald  ;  "  I  remember  see 
ing  his  name  on  some  of  the  mail  we  sent  off." 

"  Nothing  but  picture  postals,"  answered  Robert,  "  and 
only  occasionally  at  that." 

"  I  '11  think  the  matter  over,  little  Pen,  and  try  to  be 
both  diplomatic  and  truthful.  But  not  now  ;  for  if  I 
can  see  straight  through  my  tears,  there,  my  hearties,  is 
the  Vaderland  sticking  her  nose  into  Dover  waterway  and 
making  directly  for  the  pier.  I  'd  better  be  off." 

Donald  and  Robert  strained  their  eyes  to  penetrate 
the  mist,  and  made  out  the  lights  of  a  big  steamer  that 
promised  to  be  the  Vaderland. 

"  Now  don't  come  to  the  pier  with  me,"  begged  Stephen. 
"  It 's  a  nasty  night,  and  I  'd  much  rather  think  of  you 
both  as  safe  and  sound  in  this  cheery  room,  waiting 
for  the  inevitable  roast  joint  that  passes  over  here  for 
dinner." 

44  Not  on  your  life,"  said  Donald,  grimly.  "  We  're 
195 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


going  to  the  pier,  and  what 's  more,  we  are  going  to  board 
the  steamer  to  see  what  sort  of  a  state-room  you  have  ,* 
and  what 's  more,  we  are  then  going  to  stand  shivering  on 
the  pier,  mingling  our  tears  with  the  salt  spray  and  the 
fresh  raindrops,  until  the  gang-plank  is  pulled  in,  and 
you  are  off  to  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave,  —  are  n't  we,  Pen  ?  " 

"  We  are,  all  of  that,  and  whatever  else  the  occasion 
demands." 

"  And  then,  when  you  are  really  off,"  continued  Don 
ald,  "we  are  going  to  feel  as  lost  as  the  babes  in  the 
wood,  and  be  wholly  miserable." 

Outside,  the  rain  was  falling  with  melancholy  persist 
ence.  The  three  friends,  bundled  up  in  long  raincoats, 
and  managing  their  umbrellas  as  best  they  could,  made 
their  way  along  the  glistening  quay,  and  out  the  long, 
gusty  pier  to  the  landing-stage.  The  steamer  came  crawl 
ing  up  through  the  mist,  and  was  finally  fastened  along 
side  of  the  pier.  All  three  men  went  on  board,  but  for 
two  of  them  it  had  to  be  a  hasty  visit.  As  soon  as  Robert 
and  Donald  had  assured  themselves  that  Stephen  was  well 
provided  for  in  the  way  of  a  state-room,  they  had  to 
scurry  down  the  gang-plank  and  join  the  little  crowd  of 
persons  on  the  pier  who,  under  most  adverse  circum 
stances,  were  trying  to  pretend  that  the  process  of  saying 
good-by  is  a  cheerful  operation.  There  were  a  few  ghastly 
triumphs,  but  on  the  whole  they  were  more  disheartening 
than  the  open  failures.  Stephen  hung  over  the  rail,  the 
excitement  of  putting  off  having  restored  his  usual  buoy 
ant  spirits.  From  time  to  time  he  shouted  some  parting 
advice,  and  had  fairly  successful  retorts  from  Robert,  less 

196 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


frequently  from  Donald.  The  big  steamer  got  under  mo 
tion,  and  soon  Stephen's  friendly  figure  was  lost  in  the 
gloom.  The  last  they  heard  was  a  faint  "  Au  revoir,  my 
hearties !  Don't  be  Mr.  Smiths !  And  remember  — 
But  the  last  words  were  lost  in  the  splash  of  the  waters, 
and  they  could  only  guess  what  it  was  that  they  were  to 
remember. 

Sunday  at  Dover,  or  indeed  in  any  little  English  town, 
is  not  a  very  exhilarating  occasion.  The  sun  came  out,  it 
is  true,  and  dried  up  the  puddles.  Masses  of  magnificent 
white  clouds  rolled  up  from  the  Channel  and  outlined  them 
selves  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  But  the  sun 
brought  out  no  friendliness  in  the  little  seaport.  On  all 
sides,  there  were  too  obvious  evidences  of  decay.  Over 
it  all  there  rested  an  atmosphere  of  smug  respectability 
that  seemed  to  rob  the  very  sunshine  of  any  joy.  Donald 
declared  that  he  wanted  to  swear,  but  happily  omitted 
to  carry  out  his  wish.  Robert  was  curious  to  discover  the 
source  of  this  depressing  influence.  It  recalled  his  memo 
rable  Sunday  morning  at  York,  and  the  gloom  that  struck 
in  upon  his  soul  as  they  walked  toward  the  Minster.  But 
here  there  was  no  redeeming  Minster,  no  inspiring  music. 
The  sea  and  sky  failed  to  take  their  place.  In  the  absence 
of  ecclesiastical  architecture  and  church  music,  the  two 
friends  amused  themselves  by  counting  up  the  number  of 
houses  for  sale  or  to  rent.  Although  the  numbers  grew 
rapidly,  as  a  resource  it  soon  failed  to  amuse,  and  they 
were  glad  to  return  to  their  comfortable  little  hotel.  There 
were  only  two  other  guests,  but  the  lady  proprietress  had 
considerable  skill  in  talk,  and  the  two  young  men  were 
forced  to  admit  that,  thanks  to  her,  —  and  the  cook,  — 

197 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


the  dinner  was  a  success.  Robert  mentioned  the  number 
of  vacant  houses  they  had  seen,  and  asked  the  meaning 
of  it.  The  lady  proprietress  confessed  that  the  town  was 
not  prospering,  and  added  feelingly  that  having  so  many 
vacant  houses  made  the  rates  very  high. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  exclaimed  Robert,  "that  your 
vacant  houses  pay  no  taxes  ?  " 

"Practically  none,"  the  lady  proprietress  answered, 
"  unless  they  are  furnished,  and  luggage  vans  are  common 
enough,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

Even  Donald,  poet  and  idealist,  pricked  up  his  ears,  and 
volunteered  somewhat  explosively :  "  We  would  n't  stand 
for  that,  you  know,  in  America.  All  real  estate  pays  taxes, 
whether  it 's  occupied  or  not.  It 's  the  only  fair  way  !  " 

The  Indian  colonel  sitting  opposite  Donald  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak,  but  thought  better  of  it  and  devoted 
himself  wholly  to  his  dinner. 

The  Channel  is  not  so  bad  as  it  is  painted,  and  especially 
when  the  sun  shines  and  the  wind  is  mannerly.  Robert  and 
Donald  found  little  to  admire  in  the  arrangements  of  the 
boat,  but  exulted  in  the  good  air  and  sunshine.  They 
reached  Calais  in  a  surprisingly  short  time.  Both  had 
looked  forward  to  the  traditional  ordeal,  but  experienced 
instead  a  genuine  pleasure.  Calais,  from  the  roadstead,  is 
not  very  impressive.  Donald  gazed  at  it  rather  contempt 
uously,  and  blurted  out :  "  To  think  that  Queen  Mary 
should  have  had  Calais  written  on  her  heart  when  she 
might  have  had  so  many  prettier  things  !  " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Robert,  comfortingly,  "  Queen  Mary 
was  never  thought  to  have  very  good  taste,  —  in  Boston  !" 

Donald  got  them  through  the  custom-house  easily,  and 
198 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


saw  Robert  safely  settled  in  the  through  express  for  Paris. 
There  was,  fortunately,  little  time  for  leave-taking.  Robert 
was  soon  speeding  southward ;  and  somewhat  later  Donald 
was  moving  in  more  leisurely  fashion  towards  Berlin.  The 
triple  alliance  had  been  dissolved. 

Robert  had  expected  to  feel  completely  lost  when  he 
found  himself  on  this  journey,  and  for  the  first  time  alone 
in  Europe.  But  quite  to  his  surprise,  he  decidedly  liked 
the  sensation.  He  liked  the  feel  of  paddling  his  own 
canoe.  This  new  Europe,  with  its  unknown  tongue  and 
different  architecture,  was  much  more  the  Europe  of  his 
boyish  imagination.  There  were  plenty  of  Americans  in 
the  carriage, — there  always  are  in  everything  headed  for 
Paris,  —  and  sometimes  their  voices  sounded  unnecessarily 
harsh.  But  Robert's  seat  was  next  to  the  window,  and  he 
found  too  much  of  interest  outside  to  pay  any  attention  to 
his  fellow  passengers.  Robert  did  not  know  French.  He 
watched  all  the  signs,  however,  and  being  rather  quick  at 
putting  two  and  two  together,  he  contrived  to  get  the 
meaning  out  of  many  of  them.  He  had,  moreover,  a  re 
markable  little  conversation  book  from  which  he  extracted 
many  sentences,  a  few  of  which  were  useful.  His  Paris 
Baedeker  was  in  English.  He  had  originally  wanted  to 
buy  it  in  French,  quite  assured  that  his  very  necessities 
would  force  him  to  learn  the  language  so  much  the  sooner. 
But  Stephen  had  laid  restraining  hand  upon  this  heroic 
impulse.  He  had  counseled  the  purchase  of  the  book  in 
English,  and  with  so  much  insistence  that  it  might  almost 
be  called  compulsion.  Robert  was  frequently  grateful  for 
the  violence. 

At  the  present  moment,  speeding  towards  Paris,  Robert 
199 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


was  in  high  spirits.  He  was  almost  ashamed  of  it.  He 
kept  telling  himself  how  much  he  missed  his  friends,  and 
it  was  all  very  genuine,  but  nevertheless  he  was  unaccount 
ably  glad  to  be  alone.  He  also  reproached  himself  for  the 
childish  pleasure  he  took  in  the  comfort  of  the  first-class 
carriage.  He  had  been  quite  willing  to  travel  third-class 
in  England,  but  now  that  it  was  no  longer  necessary,  he 
enjoyed  the  luxury  of  the  first-class  with  a  zest  that  his 
New  England  conscience  could  not  wholly  approve  of. 

When  the  train  pulled  into  the  great  Gare  du  Nord, 
Kobert  clutched  his  suit-case  and  umbrella  with  a  firm 
grip  —  he  had  heard  that  Paris  was  a  very  wicked  place, 
and  full  of  pitfalls  for  the  young  and  unwary —  and  made 
his  way  out  to  a  cab-stand.  In  spite  of  their  uniforms  and 
brass  numbers,  Robert  would  not  allow  the  porters  to 
put  hand  to  his  luggage,  or  even  so  much  as  to  call  a  cab 
for  him.  He  deemed  it  safer  to  do  all  this  for  himself. 
After  what  seemed  to  him  very  praiseworthy  circumspec 
tion,  and  the  proper  noting  of  its  official  number,  Robert 
finally  intrusted  himself  to  a  safe-looking  vehicle.  He  had 
had  enough  of  hotels.  In  America  they  had  always  ap 
peared  to  him  as  delectable  places.  But  two  months  among 
English  hotels  is  enough  to  disillusionize  almost  any  one. 
Robert  had  decided  to  try  a  pension,  and  in  order  to  be 
quite  sure  that  it  was  respectable  and  proper,  he  chose  the 
first  one  mentioned  in  Baedeker,  the  Pension  Carpenter, 
on  the  Avenue  de  Friedlaiid.  He  knew  precisely  where  it 
was  on  the  map  of  the  city,  and  had  even  traced  out  the 
probable  route  from  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Robert  almost 
hung  out  of  the  window  of  the  cab  in  his  keen  interest 
in  all  the  activities  of  this  bustling  foreign  city.  It  was 

200 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


already  growing  dark,  but  he  was  genuinely  sorry  when 
the  route  came  to  an  end,  and  he  found  himself  at  the 
door  of  his  chosen  pension. 

There  was  some  question  about  a  room,  and  whether  he 
had  written  ahead,  and  whether  he  had  been  recommended 
to  them.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  a  brisk-looking,  middle- 
aged  Englishwoman  appeared,  looked  Robert  over  in  one 
quick  glance,  and  said  that  he  could  have  the  corner 
chamber  on  the  fourth  etage.  The  tall  clerk  still  seemed 
skeptical  about  Robert's  qualifications,  as  he  had  not 
written  ahead,  and  asked,  apparently  more  to  satisfy  his 
own  doubts  than  from  any  concern  for  Robert's  posses 
sions,  if  Monsieur  also  had  a  trunk.  Robert  was  much 
chagrined  to  find  that  in  this,  his  first  little  journey  alone, 
he  had  been  so  little  competent  that  he  had  wholly  for 
gotten  his  trunk,  and  had  left  it  at  the  Gare  du  Nord. 
The  clerk  said  it  would  be  all  right,  however,  as  the 
portier  could  get  it.  Instead  of  being  annoyed,  the  portier 
grinned,  and  looked  rather  pleased  at  the  commission 
thus  thrust  upon  him.  Robert  thought  that  he  must  be 
a  very  good-natured  man. 

Then  a  maid  was  called  and  told  to  take  Robert  to  his 
room.  She  put  him  in  a  dim  automatic  lift,  shut  the  door, 
and  started  him  towards  the  roof.  The  tiny  cage  moved 
at  snail's  pace,  but  even  this  over-temperance  in  the  matter 
of  speed  failed  to  produce  the  illusion  of  safety.  Robert 
was  relieved  to  have  the  contrivance  finally  come  to  rest, 
and  to  find  himself  on  the  level  with  a  corridor.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  the  maid  got  there  first.  She  had  the 
suit-case  and  umbrella  in  her  hand,  and  the  same  imper 
turbable  smile  on  her  face.  She  did  not  even  seem  out  of 

201 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


breath.  She  led  Kobert  along  a  gloomy  corridor,  around 
huge  hampers,  boxes,  and  trunks,  and  finally  landed  him 
by  devious  ways  in  front  of  the  corner  chamber  to  which 
he  had  been  assigned.  Robert  himself  could  see  no  door, 
but  the  maid  found  a  door-knob.  In  a  flash,  a  narrow 
opening  appeared  in  the  evenly  papered  wall,  and  Robert 
stepped  into  his  own  room. 

It  was  not  a  grand  apartment,  the  one  that  Robert 
found  himself  in,  but  scrupulously  clean,  and  much  in 
taste.  The  long  French  windows  opened  on  a  narrow 
balcony.  Robert  threw  aside  his  overcoat,  and  stepped 
out.  He  found  himself  among  the  treetops  of  the  Avenue 
de  Friedland,  in  the  regions  of  the  upper  mansards.  Near 
at  hand,  in  vague,  mystic  beauty,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
rose  clear  and  majestic  against  the  western  sky. 

And  this  was  Paris! 

It  was  what  Robert  had  imagined  it  would  be.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction.  Then  he  turned  back 
into  his  room.  He  knew  that  he  should  like  Paris,  and 
that  he  should  be  very  happy  there.  The  maid  had  touched 
a  match  to  the  fire,  turned  on  the  light,  unstrapped  his 
suit-case,  all  in  a  flash,  and  had  disappeared  through  the 
hole  in  the  wall  that  served  as  a  door.  Robert  felt  a  sense 
of  peace  and  comfort  greater  than  he  had  known  for  several 
weeks.  He  felt  a  curious  affinity  for  Paris,  and  much  of  the 
thrill  that  had  characterized  his  early  days  on  the  steamer. 

Once  more,  Robert  stepped  out  on  the  balcony.  The 
night  had  deepened,  but  in  the  west,  the  gold  and  old 
rose  filled  the  sky  with  a  parting  glory.  The  Arc  de 
Triomphe  was  only  a  vague  outline,  but  in  some  subtle 
way  it  spoke  to  Robert  of  aspiration  and  achievement. 

202 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


He  was  glad  to  live  so  very  near  it,  in  its  very  shadow,  as 
it  were,  and  he  felt  his  own  spirit  soar  into  rarer  regions. 
As  he  reviewed  his  life  in  England,  with  its  storm  and 
stress,  its  touches  of  happiness,  its  suggested  illuminations, 
he  felt  that  he  must  not  regret  anything  that  had  hap 
pened  there,  since  it  had  been  a  time  of  awakening.  But 
now  that  he  was  beginning  to  be  awake,  it  was  no  longer 
the  place  for  him.  It  was  here  on  the  Continent,  in  this 
freer  atmosphere  of  ideas,  that  he  would  find  knowledge 
and  growth.  He  recalled  what  Sappho  had  once  said  to 
him,  that  the  Continent  was  the  place  to  get  ideas,  and 
England  at  best  only  a  place  to  use  them.  Robert  knew 
too  little  either  of  the  Continent  or  of  England  to  divine 
a  cause.  As  yet  it  was  only  an  intuition,  but  had  it  been 
a  proposition  in  Euclid,  he  could  not  have  felt  more  deeply 
assured  of  its  truth.  Something  told  him  that  this  was  his 
chance,  and  that  in  the  broader  life  of  the  Continent,  he 
would  find  what  he  sought. 

In  this  retrospect  and  prospect,  Robert  had  thought  of 
Pauline  in  the  same  objective  way  that  he  had  thought 
of  Sappho  and  Miss  Frothingham,  but  he  had  not  at  all 
dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  he  was  to  see  her  again  in  Paris. 
She  had  no  part  in  the  wonderful  dreams  that  made  the 
Continent  seem  so  alluring.  It  was  quite  dark  when  Robert 
turned  back  into  his  room,  closed  the  long  French  win 
dow,  and  rather  mechanically  dressed  for  dinner.  When 
this  was  accomplished,  he  retraced  his  steps  along  the  much 
encumbered  corridor.  He  avoided  the  lift,  preferring  to 
walk  down  the  many  flights  of  marble  steps  that  separated 
him  from  the  salle  a  manger.  This  was  a  curious  room, 
terminating  in  an  awkward,  rounded  triangle.  The  tables 

203* 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


were  too  close  together,  and  there  were  too  many  people, 
for  the  size  of  the  apartment.  The  people  were  more 
plainly  dressed  than  they  had  been  in  England.  None  of 
the  other  men  wore  evening  clothes,  and  the  women  had 
manifestly  freshened  up  their  afternoon  costumes  instead 
of  discarding  them  for  something  more  elaborate.  In  spite 
of  this  outer  inferiority,  however,  Kobert  was  struck  by 
the  fact  that  the  total  effect  was  very  attractive  and 
human,  far  better  than  he  had  been  seeing  for  some  time. 
In  England,  the  wooden  servants  with  their  monotonous 
"  Thank  you  "  had  got  on  his  nerves,  and  the  prevailing 
gloom  of  the  many  dining-rooms  had  fairly  taken  away 
his  appetite.  But  here,  in  this  odd-shaped,  overcrowded 
dining-room,  the  scene  had  an  air  of  natural  and  proper 
gayety  about  it  that  made  every  stranger  in  it  seem 
friendly.  The  waiters  were  more  alert  and  human.  They 
even  ventured  to  put  some  expression  into  their  faces  when 
they  spoke  to  the  guests.  And  the  guests  themselves  were 
talking,  not  about  hot  water  and  baths  and  food  and 
colonial  appointments,  but  about  matters  that,  to  judge 
from  the  vivacity  of  the  talk  and  the  warmth  of  the  in 
terest,  were  clearly  in  themselves  worth  while. 

It  was  quickly  assumed  that  Robert  did  not  speak  French, 
and  he  was  consequently  placed  at  a  small  table  where 
both  English  and  American  were  doing  lively  service.  As 
he  sat  down,  every  one  at  the  table  looked  up  and  said 
"  Good-evening."  He  was  glad  to  see  the  brisk-looking 
Englishwoman,  who  had  approved  of  his  visible  creden 
tials  when  he  first  arrived,  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table. 
She  evidently  had  something  to  do  with  the  running  of  the 
pension.  It  seemed  quite  natural  that  she  should  know  his 

204 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


own  name.  She  introduced  him  to  the  four  other  people 
at  the  table,  not  in  a  solemn  way  that  made  it  seem  a  final 
and  talk-discouraging  ceremony,  but  in  a  sprightly  fashion, 
which  suggested  that  introductions  were  at  most  mere  pre 
liminaries,  and  only  worth  while  as  they  led  to  something 
better.  It  was  the  only  table  at  which  English  was  being 
spoken.  At  the  other  tables,  apparently  every  known 
tongue  of  Europe  was  in  use. 

The  brisk-looking  Englishwoman  asked  Robert  where  he 
had  come  from,  and  when  he  said  directly  from  England, 
questioned  him  as  to  how  he  liked  it. 

"  Not  at  all,"  Robert  answered,  with  entire  frankness. 
"  Not  nearly  so  much  as  Paris." 

"  Oh,  then  you  know  Paris  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  Hardly.  I  've  only  been  here  two  or  three  hours." 

"  Then  it  must  be  that  you  dislike  England,"  said  the 
lady,  smiling  at  Robert's  positiveness. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  do,"  he  answered.  "  I  'm  almost  ashamed 
to  say  it.  I  think  you're  English  yourself,  aren't  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  am ;  but  you  need  n't  apologize.  I  've  lived 
thirty  years  in  Paris,  and  I  know  just  what  you  mean.  I 
don't  like  England,  either.  But  tell  me  how  you  happen 
to  dislike  it  so." 

"  Because  it 's  so  snobbish,"  said  Robert,  promptly. 
"  And  because  the  people  are  so  dull,  and  talk  about  such 
stupid  things,  and  have  so  few  ideas.  I  don't  like  the  spirit 
there." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  dislike,"  assented  the  lady,  —  "  the 
spirit.  But  you  know  there  are  many  English  people  who 
feel  precisely  as  we  do  about  these  things.  They  are  not 
all  snobbish  and  dull." 

205 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  Robert  hastened  to  answer.  "  I  've 
heard  that  the  farther  you  get  away  from  England,  the 
nicer  the  English  people  are." 

They  all  laughed,  and  an  American  lady  added,  "  Which 
comes  pretty  near  to  saying  that  when  they  cease  being 
English,  they  are  really  quite  tolerable." 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Robert.  "  I  mean  that  when 
you  mix  a  little  human,  democratic  yeast  with  English 
virtues,  the  result  is  tremendously  fine.  If,  for  example, 
you  give  them  thirty  years  of  Paris,"  and  he  turned  po 
litely  to  the  hostess. 

"  You  are  almost  a  Frenchman,  with  your  ready  flattery," 
Miss  Carpenter  answered.  "  But  it 's  not  time  or  geogra 
phical  distance.  The  English  in  India  are  worse  than  the 
English  at  home.  The  thing  that  counts  is  the  extent  to 
which  they  emancipate  themselves  from  the  ideals  of  the 
so-called  upper  classes,  with  their  sickening  worship  of 
social  position,  and  their  too  great  disregard  of  human 
qualities.  This  emancipation  does  come  to  us,  but  it  comes 
only  in  spots.  Strip  an  Englishman  of  his  insularity,  and 
he  is  a  pretty  fine  specimen  of  the  human  race.  If  you 
Americans,  Mr.  Pendexter,  would  only  take  our  House  of 
Lords  bodily  over  to  Chicago,  and  give  each  member  a 
rich  American  wife  and  a  hunting-lodge  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  England  would  not  be  such  a  bad  place  for 
the  rest  of  us." 

"  We  are  certainly  doing  our  best  to  supply  them  with 
wives,"  said  Robert.  "  Perhaps  the  next  generation  will 
be  more  lively  and  democratic." 

"  I  doubt  it,"  responded  Miss  Carpenter.  "  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  the  Americans  who  come  to  England  do  nothing 

206 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


to  redeem  us.  They  only  confirm  us  in  our  sins.  Whether 
they  marry  and  settle,  or  whether  they  merely  settle,  or 
whether  they  simply  skim  the  outskirts  of  upper-class 
society,  they  outdo  the  English  in  the  very  faults  we  are 
complaining  of.  The  women  are  brighter  than  ours,  and 
while  they  are  young  and  pretty,  their  vivacity  carries  the 
day,  at  least  among  the  men ;  but  every  woman  has  at  last 
to  make  terms  with  her  own  sex,  and  some  gray  day  when 
she  is  no  longer  petted  and  courted,  she  folds  the  wings 
that  now  can  only  get  her  into  trouble,  and  grows  to  be  as 
conservative  and  commonplace  and  snobbish  as  any  old 
dowager  among  ourselves.  I  wish  earnestly  that  the  Ameri 
cans  would  act  as  a  leaven.  Of  course  some  few  of  them 
do.  But  the  majority  of  them,  both  men  and  women,  do 
us  no  good.  They  get  to  be  even  worse  than  we  are!" 

"  At  any  rate,  they  dress  better,"  suggested  the  Ameri 
can  lady. 

"  A  small  virtue,"  said  Miss  Carpenter,  "  when  it  is  a 
question  of  the  human  spirit,  when  human  souls  are  the 
issue.  It 's  like  Nero's  fiddling  while  Rome  burns ! " 

Robert  listened  attentively  to  this  arraignment  of  his 
countrymen.  He  could  hardly  say  whether  it  was  true  or 
not.  The  women  he  knew  in  America  did  not  belong  to  the 
fashionable  set  who  either  marry  into  the  English  nobility, 
or  essay  the  difficult  feat  of  storming  English  society.  The 
cousins  at  Bolton  belonged  to  what  is  known  in  New  Eng 
land  as  "  solid  stock,"  and  the  few  other  women  he  knew 
either  belonged  to  the  same  class,  or,  if  they  hailed  from 
Pinckney  Street,  to  one  a  step  lower  down.  Here  in 
Europe  he  knew  only  three  American  women,  —  Pauline, 
Sappho,  and  Miss  Frothingham,  —  and  they  were  certainly 

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not  place-hunters,  with  designs  upon  either  English  pedi 
gree  or  English  society.  As  Robert  thought  about  them, 
he  realized  that  none  of  them  were  typical.  Of  course 
they  had  traits  common  to  all  well-bred  Americans,  but 
by  no  ultra- Americanism  could  they  be  put  forward  as 
representative.  In  spite  of  his  limited  social  experience, 
Robert  felt  sure  that  they  were  all  unusual  women,  and 
each  in  her  own  way  rare  and  wonderful.  As  he  recalled 
some  of  the  stories  he  had  read  in  the  newspapers  about 
society  and  its  doings  in  New  York,  in  Lenox,  and  in 
Newport,  he  half  suspected  that  his  hostess  was  right.  "  It 
may  be,"  he  said  finally,  "  that  we  do  not  see  the  best 
of  your  nation,  just  as  you  do  not,  as  a  rule,  see  the  best 
of  ours." 

"  Thank  you !  "  exclaimed  the  American  lady ;  "  I  Ve 
been  with  Miss  Carpenter  for  four  months." 

Robert  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  The  retort 
struck  him  as  ill-bred  in  making  such  quick  personal  appli 
cation  of  a  general  remark.  He  was  too  honest  to  do  what 
she  evidently  expected  him  to  do,  put  in  an  elaborate  dis 
claimer,  or  even  take  refuge  in  the  trite  saying  that  pre 
sent  company  is  always  excepted.  It  was  the  hostess  who 
reminded  her  pleasantly  that  Mr.  Pendexter  had  said  "as 
a  rule,"  and  must  therefore  be  held  guiltless.  Undoubt 
edly  it  was  perverse  in  the  American  lady,  but  she  liked 
Robert  the  better  for  what  she  was  pleased  to  consider  his 
rudeness. 

Robert  continued  rather  gravely,  "  I  do  not  know  Amer 
ica  very  well,  not  even  Boston,  but  in  the  summer,  when  I 
take  my  vacation,  I  do  meet  people  from  all  over  the  coun 
try.  I  've  known  the  boarders  in  a  small  farmhouse  in 

208 


NEW   ENVIRONMENTS 


Vermont  to  come  from  half  a  dozen  different  states,  south 
ern  and  western,  as  well  as  our  eastern  and  middle  states. 
And  the  people  are  as  different  as  if  they  'd  come  from 
different  countries.  They  use  different  words  and  pro 
nounce  them  differently.  They  have  such  unlike  ideas 
about  government  and  religion,  and  the  things  that  are 
worth  while.  As  you  know,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
American  lady,  "  they  even  dress  differently." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  she  retorted  quickly ;  "  I  should 
hate  to  dress  like  the  New  Englanders  do." 

Robert  ignored  the  thrust  so  completely  that  the  lady 
doubted  whether  he  had  perceived  it.  He  went  on  imper- 
turbably :  "  I  have  been  tempted  to  think,  since  I  Ve  been 
in  Europe,  that  we  haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  typical 
American,  not  even  a  typical  New  Englander  or  South 
erner  or  Westerner.  They  may  look  alike,  and  talk  alike, 
and  seem  alike,  but  when  you  really  get  to  know  them, 
each  is  more  of  an  individual  than  a  type.  I  even  doubt 
whether  it  is  accurate  to  speak  of  a  typical  millionaire,  or 
a  typical  manufacturer,  or  even  of  a  typical  politician. 
They  've  a  lot  in  common  on  the  surface,  but  it 's  the  hid 
den  qualities  that  count.  If  I,  a  born  Massachusetts  man, 
can't  decide  upon  a  typical  American,  I  don't  wonder  that 
foreigners  get  all  mixed  up  about  us,  and  are  quite  at  the 
mercy  of  the  particular  men  and  women  they've  happened 
to  meet.  Perhaps  it 's  the  same  in  England,  and  that  after 
all  we  have  no  right  to  judge." 

"That's  a  charitable  suggestion,  isn't  it?"  said  the 
hostess.  "  But  I  hardly  think  it  applies  to  England  quite 
as  fitly  as  it  does  to  America.  We  're  a  fairly  homogeneous 
people,  you  know,  but  your  nation  is  made  up  of  all  the 

209 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


races  under  the  sun.  It  is  possible,  I  think,  to  run  down 
a  typical  Englishman,  and  I  quite  agree  that  he  is  singu 
larly  insular  and  irritating.  But  there's  another  and  a 
broader  type  appearing.  We  are  coming  to  have  an  Eng 
lishman  who  is  bent  on  doing  great  things  personally,  in 
art  and  literature  and  scholarship,  and  not  so  bent  on 
governing  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  's  bound  to  in 
crease,  you  know,  and  some  day  I  'm  hoping  that  he  will  be 
the  typical  Englishman,  —  a  modern  Elizabethan,  who  will 
gain  some  of  the  love  of  the  world,  as  well  as  such  a  big 
slice  of  its  commerce." 

"  He  'd  better  go  in  for  the  love,"  spoke  up  an  Ameri 
can  gentleman,  rather  brusquely,  ufor  he  's  losing  some  of 
the  commerce.  England  is  sinking  back  into  the  position 
of  a  second-class  power.  But  quite  seriously,  I  think  her 
chances  of  real  success  are  deepening.  It 's  not  good  for 
an  Englishman  to  be  cock  of  the  walk  all  the  time.  If  you 
let  him  have  his  way  all  the  time,  he 's  a  good  deal  of  a 
brute.  But  make  him  give  in  a  bit,  and  he  can  be  a  very 
decent  fellow.  That 's  the  reason  it 's  so  good  for  him  to 
have  an  American  wife." 

"  William !  "  said  the  second  American  lady  protestingly. 

Robert  had  not  caught  her  name,  but  now  he  felt  sure 
that  she  must  be  the  speaker's  wife.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  this  trick  of  suddenly  intruding  a  personal  note  into 
serious  discussion  was  really  very  annoying,  and  he  won 
dered  whether  it  could  be  distinctively  American.  At  any 
rate,  it  flattened  out  the  conversation  with  quite  amazing 
speed.  He  glanced  over  at  the  hostess.  She  evidently 
agreed  with  him.  She  had  called  a  servant  and  was  giving 
some  instructions  that  seemed  not  to  be  absolutely  necessary. 


CHAPTER   XII 

PAULINE 

ROBERT  liked  the  sensation  of  being  in  Paris.  He  could 
hardly  have  told  why  he  did,  but  when  he  awoke  the 
next  morning  and  looked  around  his  small  apartment, 
he  breathed  a  sigh  of  deep  contentment.  It  was  still  early 
when  he  had  a  fire  lighted  in  the  grate,  and  his  morning 
coffee  brought  to  him.  He  dressed  quickly,  and  spent 
some  moments  on  the  balcony,  taking  his  first  daylight 
view  of  his  surroundings.  Then  he  returned  to  his  room, 
bent  on  making  it  comfortable  for  the  month  that  he 
meant  to  stay  pensionnaire. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Robert's  orderly,  old-fashioned 
ways  that  he  should  first  of  all  unpack  his  trunk  down  to 
the  very  last  articles,  and  have  its  much  belabeled  bulk 
added  to  the  motley  assemblage  in  the  corridor.  The  con 
tents  of  the  trunk  told  in  concrete  fashion  some  of  the 
changes  that  had  been  taking  place  in  Robert's  life  since 
September.  It  was  merely  a  small  steamer  trunk,  but  it 
came  from  Boston  scarcely  more  than  half  filled.  Now  it 
was  uncomfortably  full,  and  would  manifestly  soon  need  a 
companion.  Not  only  had  the  contents  changed  in  quan 
tity,  but  they  had  suffered  a  still  more  astonishing  change 
in  quality.  The  evening  clothes  purchased  in  Liverpool 
had  been  supplemented  by  still  more  elaborate  shopping 
in  Regent  Street.  It  was  Stephen  who  had  suggested  that 
at  best  a  quiet  gentleman  like  Robert  could  wear  but  a 
few  clothes  in  the  course  of  a  year,  and  that  they  ought, 

211 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


for  the  sake  of  excellence  in  general,  to  be  of  the  soundest 
quality  and  make.  Not  only  would  they  look  better  while 
in  service,  urged  the  judicial  Stephen,  but  they  would  also 
wear  longer.  Robert  had  yielded  to  this  dual  argument, 
with  results  that  added  materially  to  his  personal  appear 
ance.  This  morning  he  meant  to  carry  the  process  still 
farther.  He  went  through  all  his  possessions,  separating 
the  sheep  from  the  goats.  The  sheep  he  put  away  care 
fully  in  clothespress  and  bureau  drawers.  The  goats  he 
piled  in  a  neat  heap  on  the  floor.  It  was  an  interesting 
heap,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter 
would  have  approved  of  it.  Certainly  the  Robert  Pendex 
ter  of  Pinckney  and  Doane  Streets  would  have  regarded  it 
as  an  unholy  extravagance.  The  gray  sack  suit,  bought  on 
Washington  Street,  and  with  many  months  of  service  to  its 
credit,  formed  the  basis  of  the  pile.  Then  came  a  miscel 
laneous  collection  of  frayed  linen,  discarded  underwear, 
collars  and  cuffs  with  circuitous  edges,  a  pair  of  shoes  that 
in  earlier  days  would  have  suffered  another  half -soling,  and 
on  top  of  all  a  rainbow  collection  of  neckties,  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  many  years  of  service,  but  now  thrown  over 
by  reason  of  too  visible  shabbiness,  or  too  poor  quality,  or, 
most  extravagant  of  all,  because  their  colors,  once  thought 
highly  suitable,  were  no  longer  regarded  by  a  more  fastid 
ious  taste  as  being  quite  becoming. 

In  making  up  this  remarkable  collection  of  clothing, 
Robert  had  more  than  once  hesitated  and  been  on  the 
point  of  rescuing  some  garment  or  necktie,  but  he  put  the 
temptation  aside,  and  went  grimly  on.  He  even  passed 
the  sheep  in  final  survey,  and  abstracted  one  or  two  articles 
from  their  ranks.  When  the  elimination  was  at  last  com- 

212 


PAULINE 


pleted,  it  became  very  evident  that  a  second  trunk  would 
not  be  needed  for  some  weeks  to  come.  The  next  question 
was  how  to  get  rid  of  the  goats.  Robert  rang  the  bell  once 
more.  The  same  maid,  with  the  same  imperturbable  smile, 
appeared.  Robert  could  find  no  fitting  phrase  in  his  little 
conversation  book  for  the  present  occasion,  so  he  merely 
pointed  to  the  pile,  and  indicated  that  the  things  were  to 
be  removed  from  the  room.  The  maid  looked  a  little  ap 
palled  at  the  size  and  heterogeneity  of  the  collection,  but 
soon  bundled  them  all  out  into  the  over-occupied  corridor. 
In  a  moment  she  returned  with  a  lead  pencil  and  a  laun 
dry-list.  Robert  shook  his  head,  brought  out  his  pocket 
dictionary,  and  managed  to  say,  "Pour  —  les — pauvres." 

The  maid  gave  Robert  an  appreciative  smile,  and  later 
in  the  day,  could  he  have  followed  the  matter  to  its  con 
clusion,  he  would  have  seen  her  bestowing  his  former  pro 
perty  upon  a  poor  young  artisan,  whom  she  meant  all  in 
good  season  to  enrich  by  the  gift  of  her  own  hand.  With 
each  article  she  also  gave  a  merry  laugh  and  an  admirable 
imitation  of  Robert's  halting  speech  when  he  said,  "  Pour 
— les —  pauvres." 

Robert  stepped  out  on  the  balcony  while  his  small  apart 
ment  was  being  put  in  order.  He  foresaw  that  he  should 
often  be  stepping  out  on  the  balcony.  It  was  sunny  and 
warm  out  there,  and  though  aside  from  the  great  Arc  de 
Triomphe  the  view  offered  little  but  treetops,  chimney 
pots,  and  mansards,  the  friendly  sky  was  always  there,  and 
a  dryer,  more  crystalline  air  than  Robert  had  recently  had 
the  opportunity  to  drink  in.  When  he  went  inside,  the 
little  chamber  was  in  perfect  order.  Robert  put  a  few 
finishing  touches  to  his  somewhat  hurried  toilet.  He  car- 

213 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


ried  his  clothes  well,  —  the  new  London  suit,  the  better 
linen,  the  more  correct  tie,  —  and,  of  greater  importance, 
he  carried  himself  well,  far  better  than  formerly.  Priscilla 
would  have  promptly  assured  him  that  he  looked  very 
swell,  and  Mattie  would  have  added  by  way  of  mischief, 

—  "  for  him."  But  they  would  doubtless  have  been  puz 
zled  by  the  more  subtle  changes  in  his  appearance,  the 
easier  manners,  and  the  change  in  his  face,  a  change  that 
spoke  of  a  greatly  enlarged  experience.    It  must  not  be 
thought  that  Robert  had  grown  fashionable,  or  was  giving 
over-much  attention  to  dress.  He  was  not  himself  aware 
of  the  marked  improvement  in  his  own  appearance.   He 
had  merely  been  passing  judgment  upon  his  personal  pos 
sessions,  and  now  that  his  attention  had  been  called  to  such 
matters  as  being  part  of  the  larger  scheme  of  excellence, 
his  judgment  was  proving  remarkably  good. 

The  material  side  of  things  being  thus  temporarily  dis 
posed  of,  —  they  decline  any  more  permanent  retirement, 

—  Robert  drew  an  armchair  up  before  the  fire.    Tempt 
ing  as  the  Parisian  streets  looked,  he  meant  to  resist 
them  until  after  luncheon.    He  was  bent  for  the  moment 
on  making  plans,  and  sat  note-book,  calendar,  and  lead 
pencil  in  hand.    It  was  already  November.    The  Christ 
mas    holidays  would  not  be  a  good  time  for  traveling. 
Robert  marked  the  second  Monday  in  January  as  the  day 
for  starting  for  Italy.    This  would  double  his  proposed 
stay  in  Paris,  but  the  longer  time  would  not  be  too  much 
for  all  he  planned  to  do.    In  the  first  place,  he  meant  to 
have  a  French  lesson  every  day.    He  had  heard  that  the 
language  was  easy.    In  the  several  weeks  at  his  disposal, 
he  fancied  that  he  could  make  a  sufficient  start  to  go  on 

214 


PAULINE 


afterwards  without  a  master.  This  plan  was  wholly  of  his 
own  making,  and  was  to  be  a  secret  until  he  could  speak 
and  read  French  with  some  facility.  He  could  easily  pic 
ture  the  surprise  of  the  cousins  at  Bolton  when  this 
accomplishment  first  became  known.  But  it  was  not  for 
the  cheap  pleasure  of  creating  this  surprise  that  he  was 
taking  up  the  language.  He  was  not  quite  sure  what  his 
real  motive  was.  In  a  way,  he  liked  the  idea  of  its  con 
venience.  But  deeper  than  that  was  the  instinct  that  such 
knowledge  would  be  a  help  in  appreciation,  —  just  how  or 
why,  he  could  not  quite  have  said.  Perhaps  also  he  wanted 
to  propose  some  feat  in  scholarship  to  see  whether  he  was 
still  equal  to  it. 

In  the  next  place,  and  largely  in  deference  to  Stephen's 
insistent  urging,  Robert  meant  to  take  up  some  form  of 
physical  culture.  Stephen  had  been  on  the  track  team  at 
Harvard,  was  even  now  a  member  of  the  cadets,  and 
counted  health  and  strength  as  part  of  the  moral  life.  He 
had  put  it  to  Robert  as  a  duty,  knowing  that  no  other 
appeal  was  so  sure  of  success.  In  addition,  the  tailors  of 
both  London  and  Liverpool  had  pointed  out  to  Robert 
that  one  shoulder  was  considerably  lower  than  the  other.  In 
Regent  Street,  the  man  had  added  by  way  of  finality  that 
"  it  was  a  shame  for  a  rich  young  gentleman  like  him  to  be 
at  all  lop-sided,  for  them  as  did  n't  know  might  mistake 
him  for  a  bookkeeper  or  a  clerk."  At  the  risk  of  a  less  as 
sured  fit,  Robert  had  replied  promptly  that  until  recently 
he  had  been  both.  For  quite  a  different  reason,  however,  he 
hated  the  idea  of  being  in  any  way  misshappen.  From  the 
time  he  was  a  very  small  boy,  any  deformity  had  repelled 
him  strongly.  He  winced  both  times  at  the  thought  of 

215 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


having  crooked  shoulders,  but  he  would  hardly  have 
thought  of  trying  seriously  to  mend  matters  had  Stephen 
not  urged  regular  physical  culture. 

In  the  third  place,  and  this  on  Donald's  advice,  Robert 
meant  to  try  to  cultivate  a  love  for  the  drama.  He  planned 
to  go  to  the  theatre  several  times  a  week,  and  perhaps  — 
if  he  could  stand  it  —  he  might  go  every  night.  Even 
in  its  milder  form,  this  determination  had  cost  him  some 
effort,  and  was  made  more  grimly  than  pleasure  is  usually 
mapped  out. 

Donald  had  jokingly  advised  that  Eobert  should  also 
fall  in  love,  it  really  did  n't  matter  with  whom,  —  anybody 
from  a  grisette  up.  But  Robert  was  not  even  amused  at 
the  proposition. 

Both  Stephen  and  Donald  themselves  would  have  been 
vastly  amused  could  they  have  known  how  very  seriously 
Robert  was  planning  this  campaign  of  personal  culture. 
The  triple  alliance  had  been  wholly  dissolved  as  far  as 
actual  presence  went,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  two 
friends  had  ever  exercised  so  practical  an  influence  over 
Robert  in  Great  Britain,  when  they  were  all  together,  as 
they  were  doing  now  in  Paris,  when  he  was  quite  alone. 
For  one  thing,  they  were  not  there  to  laugh  at  him  when 
he  did  follow  their  suggestions.  We  are  not  likely  to 
admit  it,  but  distance  lends  enchantment  to  advice  as  well 
as  to  some  other  things. 

Robert's  curriculum  was  a  trifle  diverting,  —  French, 
gymnastics,  and  the  theatre,  —  and  especially  as  applied 
to  so  unworldly  and  unathletic  a  person  as  Robert,  but  it 
was  better  chosen  than  he  in  his  ignorance  quite  knew.  It 
was  at  least  a  step  in  the  right  direction,  since  each  object 

216 


PAULINE 


of  culture  represented  a  possible  enlargement  in  his  own 
nature. 

Robert  added  a  fourth  purpose  to  the  list.  It  was  in 
volved,  it  is  true,  in  the  other  three,  but  he  meant  to  cul 
tivate  it  additionally,  as  an  end  in  itself.  Of  all  his  plans, 
it  was  perhaps  the  one  that  Robert  would  have  been  the 
shyest  about  avowing.  Like  the  theatre-going,  it  was  due 
to  Donald.  As  we  have  seen,  Donald  had  repeatedly  charged 
Robert  with  lacking  imagination.  He  even  said  that  Ste 
phen  lacked  imagination.  Indeed,  this  was  Donald's  favor 
ite  explanation  for  any  attitude  of  mind  or  any  concrete 
behaviour  that  was  not  immediately  comprehensible  to  the 
poetic  mode  of  thought.  Most  of  Donald's  little  preach 
ments  were  thrown  off  in  a  casual,  happy-go-lucky  fashion 
that  made  one  wonder  just  how  much  influence  he  had  in  the 
schoolroom.  At  first,  Robert  gave  these  preachments  scant 
respect.  But  with  the  passing  of  the  weeks  he  had  come  to 
see  that  however  careless  or  exaggerated  Donald's  speech 
might  seem,  it  was  never  devoid  of  a  certain  incontestable 
truth.  Stephen  could  shred  Robert's  own  meagre  philosophy 
of  life  into  the  veriest  tatters,  but  he  could  gain  none  but 
very  minor  victories  over  the  poet.  Robert  accepted  this 
oft-repeated  judgment  upon  himself,  and  quite  genuinely 
acknowledged  that  he  must  be  deficient  in  imagination. 
He  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  remedy  such  a  funda 
mental  defect.  He  hoped  much  from  the  drama,  something 
from  the  French  lessons,  and  even  a  little  from  the  gymnas 
tics.  But  such  a  grave  defect  ought  not,  he  reasoned,  to  be 
left  to  accidental  and  secondary  remedies.  He  determined 
to  make  at  least  an  attempt  in  the  way  of  direct,  first-hand 
culture.  Sundays  were  to  be  devoted  to  this  end.  Robert 

217 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


decided  that  every  single  Sunday  he  remained  in  Paris,  he 
would  do  something  different  and  unusual.  He  might  even 
sketch,  or  perhaps  try  to  write  something  other  than  letters. 
Could  Donald  have  known  of  these  rather  matter-of-fact 
and  prosaic  plans  for  catching  so  wayward  a  thing  as  the 
imagination,  he  would  have  declared  that  Robert  had  even 
less  imagination  than  he  supposed  and  was  quite  hopeless. 
Stephen,  on  the  contrary,  would  have  slapped  Robert  on 
the  back,  and  offered  to  bet  ten  to  one  that  Robert  would 
come  out  ahead. 

This  orderly  arrangement  of  his  possessions  and  his 
days  occupied  Robert  so  completely  that  he  was  surprised 
to  find  the  morning  gone  and  the  luncheon  hour  at  hand. 
When  he  went  down  to  the  table,  he  had  occasion  to  ap 
prove  once  more  his  decision  in  favor  of  pensions  as  against 
hotels.  The  Americans  were  out  shopping  or  sight-see 
ing,  and  Miss  Carpenter  and  Robert  were  the  only  ones  at 
their  table.  This  was  precisely  what  Robert  wanted.  The 
friendly  acquaintance  started  the  evening  before  made  good 
progress.  Miss  Carpenter  knew  of  an  excellent  French 
teacher,  an  old  gentlewoman,  who  not  only  spoke  very  pure 
French  herself,  but  who  also  had  experience  and  skill 
in  teaching.  Robert  rather  demurred  at  having  a  woman 
teacher. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  a  man  would  do  it  more  thor 
oughly,"  said  Miss  Carpenter;  "perhaps  bully  you  into 
learning  more  per  lesson.  But  really  that  is  not  the  case. 
It  might  be  true  in  mathematics  or  science.  But  in  lan 
guage  the  women  are  much  the  better.  Their  voices  are 
higher  pitched,  and  one  hears  more  distinctly  what  they 
say.  And  they  themselves  are  quicker  of  ear,  and  always 

218 


PAULINE 


correct  pronunciation  more  quickly  than  a  man  does.  I 
have  always  found  that  the  women  get  the  better  results." 

Robert  laughed  and  said,  "  I  think  you  are  consider 
able  of  afeministe,  are  n't  you?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not.  I  almost  wish  that  I  were,  for  it  would 
comfort  me  in  many  ways.  I  am  ready  to  admit  that  in 
big  things  you  men  go  away  ahead  of  us.  In  the  big 
achievements,  and  in  the  big  moralities,  you  gain  heights 
that  we  women  rarely  reach  unless  you  help  us  up  to  them. 
But  in  little  things,  in  the  little  achievements,  the  little 
moralities,  I  am  sure  that  we  women  take  the  lead.  It 's 
something  of  a  comfort  to  reflect  that,  after  all,  life  is 
mostly  made  up  of  little  things.  Teaching  a  modern  lan 
guage  is  not  a  big  thing.  It  is  a  very  little  thing,  but  it 
takes  a  big  conscience  and  no  end  of  patience.  Madame 
Sylvestre  has  both." 

"  Is  she  a  lady?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Entirely.  And  that  is  another  advantage  the  women 
teachers  have  over  the  men.  It  may  be  different  in  Amer 
ica,  but  here,  it  would  be  rather  a  poor  sort  of  man  who 
would  take  to  teaching  French  to  foreigners,  some  one 
who  had  failed  in  larger  work,  and  taken  to  this  as  a  last 
resort.  But  with  women  it  is  quite  different.  There  are 
fewer  things  they  can  do  to  earn  money.  The  women  who 
give  French  lessons  belong,  as  a  rule,  to  a  much  better  class 
than  do  the  men.  Shall  I  give  you  Madame  Sylvestre's 
address?" 

Robert  pulled  out  his  note-book,  and  put  down  the  ad 
dress  as  Miss  Carpenter  dictated  it.  He  said  that  he  would 
call  that  afternoon.  Miss  Carpenter  smiled  when  Robert 
asked  about  a  teacher  of  physical  culture.  She  did  not 

219 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


know  of  any  herself,  but  was  quite  sure  that  her  brother 
would  know.  She  promised  to  have  the  address  at  dinner. 
Kobert  also  gathered  that  the  play  at  the  Odeon  that  night 
was  quite  worth  while.  When  he  left  the  table,  he  felt  that 
he  had  already  made  a  very  good  start  towards  setting 
his  programme  in  motion. 

Once  on  the  street,  en  route  to  the  bankers,  and  the 
temptation  to  walk  was  too  strong  for  Robert  to  resist.  It 
is  an  experience,  one's  first  walk  in  Paris.  And  this  whether 
it  be  taken  on  the  Avenue  de  Friedland  and  the  Boulevard 
Haussman,  or  in  some  totally  different  quarter.  No  other 
city  offers  quite  the  same  spectacle.  It  is  not  always  gay, 
this  comedie  humaine.  On  the  contrary,  it  passes  some 
times  quite  over  to  tragedy.  But  gay  or  sad,  it  is  always 
intensely  alive.  There  is  nothing  sodden  and  beastly  about 
a  French  crowd  as  there  so  often  is  about  an  English  or 
a  Scotch  crowd.  Whatever  his  personal  fortunes  may  be, 
you  can  hardly  imagine  a  genuine  Parisian's  wishing  him 
self  anywhere  else  than  just  there  in  Paris.  This  gives  the 
crowd  a  certain  fundamental  air  of  contentment.  One  can 
almost  hear  it  say,  "  Where  else,  —  if  not  Paris.  But  there 
is  nowhere  else.  If  not  Paris,  —  bah,  one  will  not  think  of 
such  misfortune.  One  might  as  well  go  at  once  to  Pere  la 
Chaise !  "  Robert  had  often  thought  the  Boston  crowd  vis 
ibly  self-satisfied.  But  in  Paris,  the  approval  goes  beyond 
satisfaction.  It  is  worship. 

Robert's  own  spirits  were  high.  When  he  reached  Mor 
gan's,  he  knew  that  it  mattered  little  whether  he  found 
letters  or  not.  He  was  contented  and  happy  just  as  it  was. 
He  went  up  in  the  lift,  and  stared  with  a  curious  air  of 
detachment  at  the  crowd  of  Americans  gathered  in  the 

220 


PAULINE 


offices  above.  They  quite  failed  to  interest  him.  He  drew 
a  thousand  francs  on  his  letter  of  credit,  and  was  about 
entering  the  lift  again,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had 
not  even  asked  if  there  were  any  letters.  He  turned  back, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  letter  clerk.  After  some  delay, 
Robert  got  a  couple  of  letters,  but  found  himself  staring 
at  them  with  very  mild  curiosity.  They  seemed  much  less 
important  than  the  mere  fact  that  he  was  in  Paris.  He  did 
not  know  either  handwriting.  One  letter  was  from  Amer 
ica,  a  shabby  bluish-white  envelope,  whose  beauty  was  not 
heightened  by  the  sprawling,  undisciplined  handwriting. 
Robert  tore  it  open  and  took  out  a  sheet  of  equally  shabby 
foolscap  paper  covered  with  similar  hieroglyphics.  But  his 
face  lighted  up  with  pleasure  when  he  found  that  this 
ungainly  missive  came  from  his  former  humble  colleague, 
—  his  "  obedient  servant,  Dennis  Sullivan."  It  was  an  ex 
traordinary  letter,  for  the  body  of  it  consisted  of  but  one 
sentence,  telling  Robert  in  one  breath,  as  it  were,  all  the 
news  in  Dennis's  little  world.  Robert  was  touched  by  the 
letter,  —  it  was  so  full  of  gratitude  for  the  picture  postals 
and  of  genuine  affection  for  himself.  He  put  it  away  in 
his  pocket,  and  resolved  that  just  as  soon  as  he  got  back 
to  America,  he  would  do  something  for  the  boy. 

Occupied  with  this  thought,  Robert  tore  open  his  second 
letter  almost  mechanically.  It  was  addressed  in  a  woman's 
hand,  and  bore  the  Paris  post-mark.  It  was  a  strong, 
clear  hand,  but  the  arrangement  in  the  matter  of  pages 
was  more  erratic  than  Robert  was  accustomed  to.  It  began 
on  what  he  would  have  called  the  fourth  page,  passed  over 
to  the  first,  and  then,  running  lengthwise,  covered  the 
second  and  third.  It  took  a  moment  to  find  the  end  and 

221 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


read  the  signature.  The  letter  was  from  Pauline,  and 
had  been  written  about  a  week  before  from  the  Hotel 
Castiglioni.  It  was  friendly  and  matter-of-fact,  just  the 
sort  of  letter,  Robert  reflected,  that  "  a  natural  history 
girl "  might  be  supposed  to  write.  It  stated  that  Pauline 
and  her  father  were  established  for  some  weeks  at  the 
Castiglioni,  and  would  be  glad  to  have  Robert  call  when 
he  reached  Paris.  The  letter  stated  further  that  they 
found  the  hotel  satisfactory,  and  that  Robert  might  care 
to  stop  there  also.  Then  there  were  some  friendly  messages 
from  Mr.  Marshall,  a  word  about  Billy,  and  that  was  all. 
Robert  read  the  letter  twice.  It  left  him  wholly  unmoved. 
A  few  weeks  earlier,  and  the  suggestion  that  he  might  care 
to  be  at  the  same  hotel  would  have  rilled  him  with  joy, 
and  made  any  other  news  seem  wholly  insignificant.  Now, 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  glad  that  he  had  told  Miss  Carpen 
ter  at  luncheon  that  he  would  engage  his  room  until  Jan 
uary.  He  also  remembered  with  some  satisfaction  that 
she  had  said  distinctly  that  there  was  not  another  room 
vacant  in  the  whole  pension,  or  even  likely  to  be.  He  had 
asked  particularly,  but  without  any  special  motive,  for  not 
even  the  long  staircases  that  had  to  be  climbed,  if  one 
declined  the  lift,  could  take  away  the  charm  of  the  sunny 
little  apartment  among  the  treetops,  the  chimney-pots,  and 
the  mansards.  Robert  had  no  reason  to  think  that  the 
Marshalls  would  care  to  come  to  the  Pension  Carpenter,  but 
he  had  no  doubt  about  his  own  desires  in  the  matter.  He 
knew  that  it  would  bother  him  greatly  to  have  them  there, 
to  be  obliged  to  give  an  account  of  himself,  as  it  were,  every 
day,  —  how  he  spent  his  mornings,  his  afternoons,  his  even 
ings,  —  still  more  to  have  to  give  up  part  of  his  precious 

222 


PAULINE 


time  to  their  company,  and  to  have  his  Sunday  plans 
turned  so  topsy-turvy  that  his  deficient  imagination  would 
get  small  chance  for  its  much  needed  cultivation. 

The  thought  made  Robert  laugh,  but  in  spite  of  the 
laugh,  the  situation  bothered  him.  He  had  not  before 
realized  how  precious  his  present  plans  for  his  own  im 
provement  had  grown  to  be.  When  he  considered  the 
possibility  of  their  being  seriously  interrupted,  he  had  a 
quick  impulse  to  throw  the  letter  away,  and  to  act  as  if  it 
had  never  reached  him.  In  an  instant,  he  realized  how 
very  mean  this  would  be.  In  the  effort  to  make  amends 
for  it,  and  get  back  his  own  self-respect,  he  almost  went 
to  the  other  extreme.  He  almost  persuaded  himself  that 
he  was  glad  to  have  the  letter,  and  that  it  would  be  quite 
delightful  to  see  the  Marshalls  once  more.  Nevertheless, 
he  did  not  act  upon  this  make-believe.  He  might  easily 
have  called  that  afternoon,  but  there  was  Madame  Syl- 
vestre.  He  might  go  in  the  evening,  but  there  was  the  play. 
He  finally  decided  to  call  the  next  evening. 

In  reality,  it  was  two  days  later  when  Robert  presented 
himself  at  the  Castiglioni.  Even  then  he  chose  the  busiest 
part  of  the  afternoon,  when  he  felt  sure  that  they  would 
both  be  out.  He  left  two  cards,  a  little  convenance  that 
he  had  learned  from  Stephen,  and  rushed  off,  as  relieved 
as  a  schoolboy  to  escape  a  lesson.  Robert  did  not  have 
the  address  on  his  cards,  and  so  left  the  Marshalls  with 
out  any  way  of  communicating  with  him  except  through 
Morgan's.  When  Robert  got  back  to  his  room,  his  New 
England  conscience  made  itself  highly  disagreeable.  He 
suffered  the  qualms  that  the  socially  inexperienced  do 
before  they  have  grown  accustomed  to  their  own  little 

223 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


evasions  and  insincerities.  It  all  ended  by  his  writing  a 
polite  little  note  to  Pauline,  thanking  her  for  her  letter, 
and  asking  if  he  might  not  call  some  appointed  evening. 
He  suggested  an  evening  several  days  ahead,  so  that  the 
intervening  Sunday  might  be  wholly  safe.  Kobert  winced 
when  he  recalled  the  contrast  between  this  formal  per 
formance  and  that  over-fervid  letter  which  had  refused 
to  allow  itself  to  be  completed. 

The  return  mail  brought  what  Robert  felt  morally  sure 
it  would  bring,  a  friendly  letter  saying  that  the  Marshalls 
would  be  at  home,  and  begging  that  Robert  would  come 
at  seven  and  dine  with  them. 

On  the  appointed  evening,  Robert  presented  himself  at 
the  Castiglioni.  It  was  precisely  seven.  Robert  was  well 
dressed  and  carried  himself  well.  He  was  a  little  troubled 
that  the  consciousness  of  his  entire  fitness  gave  him  so 
much  comfort.  He  even  questioned  whether,  in  this  newly 
entered  upon  pursuit  of  excellence,  he  might  not  be  grow 
ing  more  worldly  than  his  more  sober  self  would  quite 
approve  of.  But  he  was  not  sufficiently  troubled  to  wish 
it  otherwise. 

Robert  was  shown  at  once  into  the  Marshalls'  private 
salon.  It  was  on  one  of  the  upper  floors,  and  was  very 
"  right."  The  room  was  eminently  well  ordered,  just  the 
right  proportions  and  pleasantly  old-fashioned.  To-night 
the  rose-colored  curtains  were  drawn,  several  low  lights 
gave  a  home-like  effect,  and  a  few  flowers  on  the  centre 
table  completed  a  picture  which  was  well  calculated  to 
appeal  to  one  of  Robert's  sensitive  temperament.  As  yet 
the  room  was  unoccupied.  Robert  had  pictured  Pauline 
and  her  father  sitting  waiting  for  him,  and  this  empty 

224 


PAULINE 


room,  in  spite  of  its  charm,  came  as  something  of  a  shock. 
It  gave  him  a  chance  to  change  his  mood,  and  to  realize 
that  the  universe  did  not,  after  all,  centre  in  himself,  or  at 
least  for  no  one  but  himself.  This  charming  old  salon 
suggested  quite  a  different  centre,  and  he  tried  to  place 
himself  in  the  new  point  of  view. 

Presently  one  of  the  side  doors  opened,  and  Pauline 
entered.  She  had  the  air  of  having  been  dressed  for 
several  minutes.  It  did  not  seem  quite  consistent  in  an 
out-and-out  natural  history  girl,  but  it  occurred  to  Robert 
that  Pauline  had  probably  waited  some  moments  on  pur 
pose,  either  to  allow  him  to  settle  himself,  or  to  allow  the 
room  to  exert  its  own  hospitality.  But  whether  by  design 
or  accident,  Robert  decided  that,  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view,  it  was  a  clever  thing  to  do,  —  the  momentary  wait, 
the  silent  room,  the  expectancy  expressed  by  the  light  and 
flowers,  and  last  of  all,  Pauline's  alert,  radiant  entrance. 

Robert  was  conscious  of  a  decided  thrill.  He  no  longer 
wondered  that  at  Gorphwysfa  he  had  been  completely 
taken  off  his  feet.  Even  now,  after  these  weeks  of  Euro 
pean  sophistication  and  after  assuring  himself  of  his  own 
established  low  temperature,  he  realized  with  a  mental 
start  that  the  room  and  everything  else  had  vanished,  and 
that  he  saw  but  one  object  and  that  was  Pauline.  It  was 
once  more  worship,  the  worship  of  a  lover  of  excellence 
in  the  presence  of  a  visible  excellence.  But  it  was  now 
a  much  more  impersonal  worship.  Robert  no  longer  felt 
any  desire  to  kiss  the  strong,  shapely  hand  held  out  to 
him,  and  yet  to  his  own  amazement  that  was  precisely 
what  he  did  do,  bending  low  over  Pauline's  hand  quite 
after  the  manner  of  the  French  actor  he  had  seen  in  the 

225 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


theatre  the  night  before.  That  Robert  could  do  this  with 
so  much  self-possession  and  grace  marked  the  wide  change 
in  his  own  feelings  towards  the  girl. 

Pauline  smiled  at  this  unexpected  salutation,  and  said, 
with  a  pretty  suggestion  of  a  shrug,  "  When  we  are  in 
Rome — "  But  she  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome  in  a  few 
quiet  words  and  begged  him  to  be  seated.  Her  father 
would  be  in  presently,  she  said.  They  had  been  in  the 
country  that  afternoon,  and  had  been  late  in  returning. 
Perhaps  Robert  knew,  but  her  father  took  an  uncon 
scionable  time  to  dress.  Robert  was  quite  willing  that  Mr. 
Marshall  should  take  the  whole  evening  to  dress,  and  then 
at  once  turn  about  and  begin  preparing  for  bed.  While 
Robert  had  no  personal  objection  to  Pauline's  father,  it 
would  obviously  have  been  very  much  cosier  to  have  had 
dinner  and  the  evening  with  Pauline  alone.  Robert  had 
pictured  this  meeting  many  times,  and  always  it  had  been 
full  of  emotion  and  agitation.  Even  in  imagination,  his 
cheeks  had  burned,  and  his  heart  had  beat  against  his 
ribs  almost  to  the  point  of  suffocation.  But  York  Minster 
stood  between  those  days  and  these.  Now,  in  the  face  of 
the  real  meeting,  his  cheeks  were  not  burning,  and  his 
heart-beat  was  as  regular  as  a  clock. 

Robert  even  examined  Pauline's  dress  while  she  was 
talking,  and  appraised  her  much  as  he  might  have  done  a 
person  on  the  stage.  She  always  dressed  well,  he  remem 
bered  that  quite  distinctly,  but  to-night  it  struck  him  that 
she  was  dressed  more  subtly  than  usual.  She  had  on  a 
soft  gray  gown,  made  without  any  trimming  whatever. 
The  sleeves  stopped  at  the  elbow,  and  the  neck  was  cut 
perfectly  square.  The  gown  carried  but  one  ornament,  a 

226 


PAULINE 


rosette  of  narrow  black  velvet  ribbon,  so  large  and  full 
that  it  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  black  chrysanthe 
mum.  Robert  watched  this  rosette  with  a  certain  fascina 
tion,  as  it  softly  rose  and  fell  on  Pauline's  bosom,  for  the 
intense  blackness  brought  out  a  quality  in  the  gray  that 
he  had  never  seen  in  gray  before.  The  only  touch  of  color, 
aside  from  that  in  Pauline's  wholesome  cheeks,  was  the 
one  flower  in  her  hair,  a  pink  rose,  similar  to  those  on  the 
centre  table.  Robert  had  a  good  opportunity  to  observe 
all  these  details,  for  he  was  himself  doing  very  little  of  the 
talking.  In  answer  to  his  questions,  Pauline  was  giving 
him  a  pleasant  account  of  their  doings  after  they  left 
Bowness,  and  of  Billy's  life  at  Abbotsholme.  It  got  to  be 
after  half -past  seven.  Pauline  excused  herself  to  see  what 
could  be  detaining  her  father.  Presently  she  returned,  but 
alone.  Her  father  was  not  well,  she  said,  and  had  retired. 
He  begged  that  Robert  would  excuse  him.  They  would 
have  dinner  at  once,  Pauline  added.  Robert  offered  to  go 
immediately,  so  that  Pauline  might  be  with  her  father. 
He  had  a  curiously  guilty  feeling,  as  if  his  own  wish  to 
dispense  with  Mr.  Marshall  had  somehow  made  the  poor 
gentleman  ill.  But  Pauline  insisted  that  Robert  should 
remain.  Her  father's  illness,  she  said,  was  merely  a  slight 
attack  of  indigestion ;  he  would  soon  be  asleep.  Pauline 
had  evidently  given  the  order  for  dinner  while  she  was 
out  of  the  room,  for  it  was  now  promptly  announced,  and 
quite  put  an  end  to  Robert's  hesitation. 

The  third  cover  had  been  dexterously  removed,  and  the 
little  dinner-table  to  which  Pauline  led  the  way  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  planned  for  two.  It  could  hardly  have  been 
cosier,  and  Robert  felt  that  if  Mr.  Marshall  had  to  have 

227 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


indigestion,  it  was  genuinely  considerate  of  him  to  have  it 
on  that  particular  evening. 

Pauline  made  a  charming  hostess.  Every  movement 
was  sure  and  graceful,  and  she  herself,  in  spite  of  the 
questioning  stare  of  the  garqon,  was  wholly  free  from  em 
barrassment.  Robert  sat  opposite  her,  and  found  himself 
feeling  very  much  at  home  and  very  contented.  He  was 
nothing  of  a  gourmand,  but  he  liked  to  have  things  done 
well.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  after  so  many  years  of  the 
Pinckney  Street  cuisine,  fate  owed  him  something  a  little 
better.  But  genuine  as  his  enjoyment  was,  it  was  very 
pale  compared  to  what  it  would  have  been,  had  the  occasion 
found  him  in  the  state  of  mind  of  the  Bowness  days.  To 
be  dining  alone  with  Pauline  in  this  friendly  fashion  would 
have  made  him  too  blissfully  happy  to  eat  or  even  to  talk. 
He  would  have  sat  and  beamed  upon  Pauline  with  a  fatu 
ity  which  would  probably  have  killed  any  remote  chance 
that  he  might  ever  have  had  of  making  her  think  well  of 
him. 

But  to-night  he  ate  the  well-arranged  courses  with  a 
wholesome,  unaffected  appetite.  He  talked  or  listened,  as 
the  case  might  be,  with  an  ease  that  added  much  to  his 
attractiveness.  His  very  lack  of  emotional  quality  made 
him  appear  to  excellent  advantage.  It  is  one  of  those  per 
verse  arrangements  of  fate,  about  which  lovers  have  a 
proper  right  to  complain,  that  when  they  need  their  heav 
iest  guns,  they  find  them  spiked.  There  may  be  a  certain 
benevolence  in  the  arrangement,  though,  since  it  is  fair  to 
suppose  that  if  a  woman  cares  for  a  man  at  his  awkward- 
est,  she  will  be  able,  in  the  long  years  that  follow,  to  get 
on  with  him  at  his  best. 

228 


PAULINE 


Robert  was  quite  at  his  best.  Pauline,  being  a  natural 
history  girl,  was  not  analytical,  but  the  dinner  had  gone 
no  farther  than  the  fish  before  she  acknowledged  to  her 
self  that  Robert  had  improved,  and  was  better  company 
than  he  used  to  be.  The  talk  had  been  desultory  and 
unimportant.  In  point  of  expression  Donald  would  have 
said  that  it  had  been  rather  happy,  but  in  point  of  con 
tent  neither  one  had  said  anything. 

It  may  have  been  the  realization  of  a  deeper  value  in 
Robert  that  made  Pauline  say,  rather  brusquely,  "  Are  n't 
you  tired  of  loafing  yet  ?  " 

Robert  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  "  How  do  you 
know  that  I  am  loafing  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  you  all  do  it.  All  Americans  who  come  to 
Europe  on  no  special  errand  loaf.  That 's  what 's  the  mat 
ter  with  my  father.  He  gets  indigestion  because  he  has 
nothing  to  do  —  nothing  genuine,  I  mean.  Our  trip  this 
afternoon  was  an  out-and-out  farce.  We  knew  it  was 
going  to  be  when  we  started  out.  We  knew  it  the  whole 
way  there  and  back.  When  we  got  home,  we  were  so  dead 
sure  of  it  that  father  hadn't  the  spunk  to  get  dressed. 
He  just  keeled  over  and  went  to  bed.  When  he  feels  that 
way,  he  calls  it  indigestion,  but  it's  just  out-and-out,  up- 
and-down  ennui." 

"  How  do  you  escape?"  Robert  ventured  to  ask. 

"  I  don't !  "  said  Pauline,  resolutely. 

"  You  don't  look  bored,"  Robert  suggested. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  bored  just  now.  If  I  were,  I  should  show 
it.  I  generally  keep  cheerful.  But  that 's  because  I  'm  still 
young,  and  expect  something  of  the  future.  If  I  thought 
that  things  would  go  on  just  like  this,  on  and  on  without 

229 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


any  special  purpose,  I  should  be  in  despair.  I  don't  think 
that  I  could  stand  it.  It  would  be  too  silly,  just  trotting 
about  from  place  to  place,  no  reason  for  going,  no  reason 
for  staying,  no  reason  for  anything !  " 

"  I  thought  you  liked  leisure,  and  approved  of  it,"  said 
Robert. 

"  I  do,  thoroughly.  But  not  loafing.  That 's  a  different 
matter,  and  simply  killing." 

"  What  do  you  want  your  father  to  do  ?  "  Robert  asked, 
genuinely  interested  in  her  seriousness. 

"  I  want  him  to  go  home,"  answered  Pauline,  promptly. 
"  He  's  not  an  old  man.  He  ought  to  do  something.  It 's 
killing  work,  just  loafing !  " 

"  Won't  he  go  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Not  yet.  He  '11  go  in  the  spring,  he  says.  But  I  know 
just  how  it  will  be.  When  spring  comes,  he  will  go  in  the 
fall.  We  've  been  here  almost  three  years  now,  —  just 
think  of  it !  We  came  originally  for  my  benefit,  to  culti 
vate  me,  you  know.  And  now  we  just  stay  on." 

"  The  process  being  finished,"  put  in  Robert. 

"  Not  at  all,"  protested  Pauline.  "  The  process  has  not 
been  finished.  But  the  material  proved  poor.  Cultivation 
goes  badly  because  it  seems  to  have  no  end  in  view.  When 
I  learned  French,  I  took  up  Italian.  I  'm  glad  to  know 
both  of  them,  of  course.  But  I  don't  want  to  go  on  indefi 
nitely  learning  modern  languages,  and  having  nothing  to 
say  in  any  of  them !  I  believe  father  would  have  me  learn 
German  as  perfectly  as  I  know  French,  and  then  get 
Spanish  as  perfectly  as  the  German.  It  would  be  rather 
a  dreary  prospect,  now  would  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Robert ;  "  I  should  n't  like  it." 
230 


PAULINE 


"  Now  tell  me  what  you  're  doing,"  said  Pauline. 

"  Oh,  a  lot  of  things,"  Robert  answered  evasively. 

"  So  are  we  all,"  said  Pauline,  calmly.  "  We  're  doing 
a  lot  of  things.  A  lot  of  make-believes !  I  don't  imagine 
you  've  done  a  stroke  of  honest  work  since  you  Ve  been 
in  Europe.  You  have  n't  the  look  of  a  worker  !  " 

Robert  laughed.  He  could  n't  help  wondering  whether 
the  Liverpool  tailors  had  successfully  hidden  the  book 
keeper  droop  in  his  shoulders. 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  me,"  he  said.  "  You  know  I 
had  to  get  well  first.  Remember  that  I  was  a  genuine 
invalid  when  I  left  Boston." 

Pauline  shook  her  head  in  doubt.  "  You  talk  just  like 
the  rest  of  them.  They  're  all  invalids.  They  all  have  to 
get  well  first.  That 's  just  a  trumpery  excuse.  You  look 
the  picture  of  health  now." 

"  I  don't  need  any  excuse  now,  not  since  I  Ve  come  to 
Paris,  at  any  rate.  And  I  am  working  hours  every  day,  — 
honor  bright !  That  was  one  reason  I  could  n't  call  on 
you  sooner." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Pauline.  "  What  is  it  you  are 
doing?" 

Robert  had  meant  to  keep  his  secret,  but  sitting  there 
face  to  face  with  Pauline,  he  soon  found  himself  yielding 
to  a  desire  to  vindicate  himself  in  her  eyes,  and  telling 
her  everything  about  his  plans,  even  to  his  novel  use  of 
Sundays. 

"  Cultivating  your  imagination  ?  "  said  Pauline,  with  a 
puzzled  look  on  her  face.  "  I  always  thought  that  that 
was  a  bad  thing  to  do.  It 's  better  to  stick  close  to  facts." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  cried  Robert,  with  the  enthusiasm 
231 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


of  the  new  convert,  "  sticking  close  to  facts  means  that 
you  don't  see  them.  It  takes  imagination  to  see  what  the 
facts  are !  Donald  Fergusson  even  holds  that  we  have  it 
in  our  power  to  change  the  facts ;  that  the  world  is  not  a 
fixed  quantity,  but  something  plastic,  left  for  us  to  shape, 
and  obedient  to  our  will  and  imagination." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  believe  any  such  nonsense,"  exclaimed 
Pauline.  " For  example,  what  did  you  do  last  Sunday? " 

Robert  could  not  help  laughing.  "  You  are  a  terrible 
cross-examiner,"  he  said.  "  You  would  have  made  a  capi 
tal  lawyer." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  should  have  been,  had  I  been  born 
a  man,  and  had  n't  such  a  dislike  for  quarrelsome  people. 
I  should  like  the  fact  part  of  the  law,  but  I  know  it  would 
make  me  cross  to  have  people  juggle  with  it  and  quar 
rel  over  it.  You  have  n't  told  me  yet  what  you  did  last 
Sunday." 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  I  got  up  —  " 

"  I  assumed  as  much,"  put  in  Pauline. 

"  And  then  I  had  my  bath,  and  dressed,  and  drank  my 
very  good  coffee." 

"  I  assumed  that,  too,"  threw  in  Pauline. 

"  Then  I  went  to  church  —  to  Notre  Dame." 

"  I  have  a  picture  of  it,"  said  Pauline,  "  taken  upstream. 
And  Notre  Dame  looks  exactly  like  a  giant  pair  of  opera- 
glasses.  But  the  service  there  is  rather  stupid,  I  think.  If 
you  want  something  out  of  the  ordinary,  you  ought  to  go 
to  the  Greek  Church.  And  then  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  After  that  I  took  one  of  the  steamboats  and  went  up 
river  as  far  as  the  Cafe  des  Arbres.  I  got  dejeuner  there, 
and  remained  until  sunset  before  I  came  back  to  Paris." 

232 


PAULINE 


"  I  have  been  to  the  Cafe  des  Arbres.  It 's  a  stupid 
little  place,  and  simply  overrun  with  artists.  What  did 
you  do  with  a  whole  afternoon  there? " 

"  I  see  that  you  won't  be  put  off  with  anything  less 
than  the  whole  truth,"  said  Robert.  "  I  did  something 
rather  silly,  I  am  afraid  you  would  say." 

"What  if  I  do?"  said  Pauline.  "I  might  be  wrong, 
and  you  might  be  right.  In  any  case,  the  only  thing  that 
counts  is  what  you  yourself  thought  of  it.  What  did  you 
think  of  it  ?  Did  it  seem  to  you  silly  ?  " 

"No,  not  entirely  silly,"  Robert  answered.  "The 
sketches  themselves  were  poor,  but  it  was  worth  while  to 
have  tried,  and  I  fell  in  with  some  nice  young  fellows 
studying  architecture  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts.  If  I 
were  younger,  I  almost  think  that  I  would  join  them  and 
study  to  be  an  architect." 

"  How  absurd  to  think  of  yourself  as  being  old ! "  ex 
claimed  Pauline.  "  Why,  you  're  a  mere  boy !  Studying 
architecture  would  be  a  lot  better  than  loafing,  or  even 
than  cultivating  the  imagination." 

"  It  would  be  a  poor  architect  who  did  n't  cultivate  his 
imagination,"  said  Robert.  "  I  don't  think  you  'd  care  to 
look  at  his  buildings,  much  less  live  in  any  of  them." 

"All  the  same,"  continued  Pauline,  "my  advice  is  not 
to  keep  up  this  sort  of  skirmishing  too  long.  Settle  down 
to  something  definite  and  make  connections  with  life." 

The  dinner  had  meanwhile  reached  the  coffee  stage. 
Pauline  and  Robert  were  lingering  over  the  meal,  quite 
oblivious  to  the  fact  that  it  was  already  after  ten. 

.The  garqon  had  withdrawn  his  suspicions.  Being  well- 
trained  in  such  matters,  his  intuitions  told  him  that  this 

233 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


was  no  ordinary  flirtation,  but  merely  a  meeting  of  two 
old  friends.  Then  he  passed  to  the  other  extreme,  and 
disapproved  of  them  for  being  so  little  sentimental.  The 
gentleman  was  so  clean  and  nice-looking,  and  Mademoiselle 
so  beautiful  and  well  dressed !  It  was  really  a  thousand 
pities  that  they  were  n't  lovers.  And  such  an  opportunity 
to  make  love !  He  would  have  kept  himself  discreetly 
behind  the  screen.  He  retired  a  number  of  times,  but  no 
matter  how  quietly  he  returned,  he  could  never  discover 
that  his  absence  had  even  been  noticed.  It  was  a  thousand 
pities ! 

Robert  realized  that  it  was  quite  time  to  go.  He  was 
sorry,  for  he  had  had  a  pleasant  evening.  He  took  Pauline 
back  to  the  salon,  but  neither  sat  down.  They  stood  chat 
ting  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  Robert  finally  left. 
Pauline  gave  him  her  hand  cordially.  This  time  he  did 
not  kiss  it. 

When  Robert  got  down  to  the  street,  and  was  stepping 
into  his  cab,  he  remembered  that  Pauline  had  not  asked 
him  to  call  again.  All  the  way  back  to  the  Avenue  de 
Friedland,  he  found  himself  dwelling  on  this  omission. 
He  could  not  decide  whether  it  had  been  studied  or  acci 
dental.  He  knew  that  she  had  enjoyed  the  evening,  for 
she  had  said  so.  It  was  odd  that  she  had  not  spoken  of 
seeing  him  again.  Robert  had  begun  to  realize  that  he 
himself,  compared  to  Pauline,  was  a  distinctly  complex 
person.  He  tried  to  fancy  what  a  very  simple  person 
would  have  done  under  these  same  conditions, — a  child, 
for  instance.  That  made  the  problem  very  easy.  A  child 
would  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  would  call  again, 
and  as  soon  as  he  really  wanted  to.  To  ask  him  to  come 

234 


PAULINE 


would  have  been  wholly  unnecessary,  even  silly.  Doubt 
less  Pauline  reasoned  in  some  such  direct  way.  It  was 
not  a  matter  of  great  importance,  certainly  no  longer  a 
life-and-death  matter,  but  it  was  far  more  pleasant  to  feel 
that  Pauline  would  like  to  see  him  from  time  to  time, 
even  frequently,  than  to  believe  that  she  was  wholly  in 
different.  By  the  time  Robert  reached  the  Pension  Car 
penter,  he  had  reasoned  out  the  matter  to  his  entire 
satisfaction.  At  least,  this  was  the  conclusion  that  the 
cabman  came  to  when  he  glanced  at  the  size  of  his  pour- 
boire.  As  Robert  was  undressing,  the  thought  occurred 
to  him  that,  as  dinner  guest,  he  would  in  any  case  be  ex 
pected  to  call,  and  that  all  his  fumbling  around  among 
simple  and  complex  motives  had  been  quite  wide  of  the 
mark.  Perhaps  Pauline  was  not  a  child,  after  all.  As  he 
tumbled  into  bed,  he  had  the  feeling  that  he  still  had  a 
great  deal  to  learn. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ROBERT  CULTIVATES  HIS  IMAGINATION 

ROBERT'S  state  of  mind  on  the  day  after  the  dinner-party 
was  one  of  considerable  perplexity.  His  self-imposed  and 
fairly  regular  routine  occupied  him  externally,  but  did 
not  prevent  his  thoughts  from  wandering  pretty  far  afield. 
Seen  through  the  perspective  of  a  dozen  or  more  hours, 
the  dinner-party  was  still  a  success,  Pauline's  costume 
still  perfect,  and  she  herself  still  a  girl  of  more  than 
passing  interest.  When  Robert  tried  to  compare  her  to 
the  Pauline  of  Gorphwysfa,  he  had  to  admit  that  she  had 
surpassed  even  herself,  —  her  gown  was  more  subtle  in  its 
beauty,  her  person  more  commanding  in  its  good  looks, 
her  poise  more  assured.  Yet  at  Gorphwysfa  he  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her,  while  in  Paris  he  was  appreciative,  even 
interested,  but  certainly  nothing  more.  He  was  greatly 
perplexed.  Could  such  a  feeling  have  been  wholly  an  illu 
sion,  or  had  his  standards  undergone  so  radical  a  change 
that  Pauline  no  longer  satisfied  them?  Whatever  the  dif 
ference,  however,  he  was  not  called  upon  to  decide  its  exact 
nature.  Without  precisely  voicing  the  matter,  Robert  had 
quite  determined  that  Pauline  should  not  again  be  a  dis 
turbing  factor  in  his  own  life.  He  hoped  that  they  might 
be  good  friends, — he  was  sure  of  that.  As  Pauline  had 
not  asked  him  to  call  again,  it  was  quite  in  his  own  hands 
as  to  when  he  should  go. 

In  the  morning,  when  Robert  was  a  trifle  irritated  that 
Pauline  occupied  so  much  of  his  thoughts,  he  decided  that 

236 


ROBERT   CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

he  would  certainly  not  call  for  at  least  a  week.  But  in 
the  afternoon,  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  only  civil 
to  call  at  the  Castiglioni,  and  at  least  inquire  after  Mr. 
Marshall's  health.  It  was  getting  on  towards  five  o'clock 
when  Robert  arrived  at  the  hotel.  Both  Pauline  and  Mr. 
Marshall  were  at  home,  and  both  were  in  the  salon  when 
Robert  was  shown  up. 

Mr.  Marshall  was  so  hearty  in  his  welcome,  and  so 
profuse  in  his  apologies  at  having  failed  to  appear  the 
evening  before,  that  Robert  forgave  himself  for  his  own 
disabling  wish,  and  even  got  to  the  point  where  he  was 
genuinely  glad  to  see  Mr.  Marshall  again. 

Pauline  gave  Robert  a  frank  welcome,  which  added  a 
trifle  to  his  perplexity.  It  was  everything  that  the  most 
socially  exacting  could  ask,  and  equally  devoid  of  any 
thing  like  significance.  Robert  was  not  hunting  for  a 
meaning.  Those  who  merely  mean  to  be  good  friends 
may  not  ask  anything  more  than  the  most  non-committal 
friendship.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  lack  of 
flavor  in  the  triangular  talk  that  followed.  Nothing  was 
said  that  might  not  just  as  well  have  been  left  unsaid. 
The  talk  was  friendly,  but  quite  profitless.  Matters  went 
rather  better  when  the  tea-table  was  brought  in.  The 
large  brass  tray  was  a  beautiful  specimen  of  Indian 
enameling,  and  the  tea  equipage  and  the  china  cups  fit 
topics  for  additional  talk.  In  his  recently  awakened  love 
for  beauty,  Robert  was  genuinely  interested  in  all  beauti 
ful  objects.  His  appreciation  did  not  fail  to  take  in  the 
fact  that  Pauline,  in  her  dark  blue  gown  and  her  whole 
some  color,  added  much  to  the  charm  of  the  scene.  She 
presided  at  the  tea-table  very  gracefully.  To  have  her 

237 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


hand  one  a  cup  of  tea  was  to  have  an  added  taste  of 
pleasure.  Robert's  memories  of  Pauline  were  all  outdoor 
memories.  He  found  it  hard  to  imagine  her  in  the  house. 
He  knew  that  she  would  not  have  shared  his  great  expe 
rience  in  York  Minster,  or  even  have  vaguely  understood 
it.  But  last  evening  and  this  afternoon  showed  Pauline 
in  a  distinctly  new  light.  She  was  not  only  domestic,  but 
gracefully  domestic.  Robert  realized  that  if  he  thought 
of  Pauline  again,  it  would  have  to  be  with  these  additions, 
and  that  he  would  involuntarily  think  of  her  again,  the 
experience  of  the  morning  made  him  feel  very  sure.  He 
could  scarcely  forget  a  girl  who  was  at  once  so  well  put 
up  and  so  much  of  a  person. 

The  more  tea  Mr.  Marshall  drank,  the  more  talkative 
he  grew,  and  fortunately  the  quality  of  his  talk  improved 
with  its  flow.  Robert  had  listened  first  out  of  courtesy, 
but  later  out  of  genuine  interest,  as  Mr.  Marshall  dis 
coursed  upon  tea  and  the  tea  ceremony  in  Japan.  After 
his  third  cup,  however,  he  was  quite  talked  out.  He  as 
sured  Robert  that  he  never  allowed  himself  more  than 
three  cups,  and  he  gave  this  assurance  with  the  impressive 
manner  of  those  who  set  some  purely  arbitrary  limit  upon 
their  indulgences,  and  call  it  high  virtue. 

Pauline's  contributions  to  conversation  seldom  followed 
the  lead  of  the  last  speaker.  They  came  usually  as  sharp 
breaks  in  the  current  thought.  It  was  so  in  this  case. 
When  she  recognized  her  father's  withdrawal  from  remi 
niscence,  she  turned  to  Robert  and  asked,  "  How  do  your 
French  lessons  come  on  ?  Have  you  a  good  teacher  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  'm  getting  on,"  said  Robert,  "  and  I  sup 
pose  I  have  a  good  teacher.  You  know  I  've  nothing  to 

238 


ROBERT   CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

compare  matters  with.  I  have  never  studied  a  foreign 
language  before,  except  of  course  a  little  Latin.  Just  now 
I  'm  mostly  bewildered.  Madame  Sylvestre  speaks  in 
French,  but  with  such  rapidity,  and  in  such  a  torrent  of 
words,  that  I  only  catch  about  one  out  of  a  hundred." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Pauline.  "  They  all  do  the  same. 
I  don't  know  whether  it 's  because  they  want  to  display 
their  knowledge,  or  whether  it's  because  talking  is  so 
much  easier  than  teaching." 

"  My  daughter  has  always  been  rather  a  critical  pupil, 
as  you  can  see,"  put  in  Mr.  Marshall.  "  She  makes  her 
teachers  earn  their  money." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  continued  Pauline,  quite  as  if  her 
father  had  not  spoken,  "that  it  might  have  been  better  if 
you  had  come  to  me  for  your  lessons.  I  know  the  language, 
and  I  also  remember  some  of  the  difficulties  in  getting 
to  know  it.  The  latter  is  evidently  beyond  Madame  Syl 
vestre." 

"That  is  awfully  kind  of  you,"  Robert  hastened  to 
say. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Mr.  Marshall,  "  that  you  would 
be  taking  the  bread  out  of  the  mouth  of  some  decayed 
gentlewoman.  I  should  not  approve  of  that." 

"  A  consistent  protectionist  ?  "  suggested  Robert. 

"  It  would  be  nothing  of  the  sort,  father,"  protested 
Pauline.  "  I  did  n't  mean  that  Mr.  Pendexter  should  pay 
for  the  lessons  !  " 

"  That  would  n't  be  any  consolation  to  the  decayed 
gentlewoman,"  said  Mr.  Marshall.  "The  question  is  not 
whether  Mr.  Pendexter  pays  or  not.  It 's  whether  he  pays 
her!" 

239 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


They  all  laughed. 

"  I  'm  not  so  stupid  as  that,"  answered  Pauline.  "  But 
I  've  no  desire  to  protect  any  one.  If  your  decayed  gentle 
woman  can't  teach  French  as  well  as  I  can,  she  ought  to 
do  something  else  for  a  living.  Are  you  committed  to  her 
for  any  length  of  time,  Mr.  Pendexter  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  so,"  Robert  replied  ;  "  at  least  as  long  as 
I  stay  in  Paris." 

"  If  you  have  the  time,  and  would  like  it,  I  will  gladly 
give  you  a  lesson  on  top  of  Madame's.  Then  you  would 
get  a  lot  of  practice,  and  ought  to  make  famous  progress. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much,  and  I  think  you  're  awfully 
kind,"  said  Robert.  "But  it's  not  a  question  of  my  time. 
I  think  I  have  no  right  to  take  so  much  of  yours" 

"  Happily  that  does  n't  concern  you,"  answered  Pau 
line,  calmly.  "  I  have  a  right  to  do  what  I  like  with  my 
own  time.  All  I  should  ask  would  be  that  you  must  be 
perfectly  frank.  If  you  found  the  lessons  not  worth  the 
time  they  took,  would  you  say  so?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Robert,  smiling.  "  I  can't  imagine  it,  but 
if  the  unexpected  happened,  I  should  up  and  say  so ! " 

"  I  think  if  you  did,"  put  in  Mr.  Marshall,  "  it  would 
make  my  daughter  think  much  better  of  all  her  old 
teachers.  She  has  a  notion  that  teaching  is  very  easy 
work." 

"  Really,  I  haven't,  father.  I  know  it  must  be  difficult, 
for  so  few  do  it  well.  But  I  do  think,  if  one  can't  teach, 
one  ought  n't  to  pretend  to." 

"  That 's  sound  doctrine,  at  any  rate,"  said  Robert. 

"Then  come  to-morrow  afternoon  about  this  time," 
240 


ROBERT  CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

Pauline  replied.  "Father  and  I  are  nearly  always  home 
by  dark.  We  can  drink  tea  and  talk  French  together. 
Father  shall  see  whether  I  'm  a  good  teacher  or  not ! " 

"  The  proof  of  the  pudding,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Mar 
shall.  "  I  shall  judge  you  by  the  way  Mr.  Pendexter 
speaks  French  a  month  from  now." 

It  was  in  this  unexpected  way  that  Robert  found  him 
self  drinking  tea  with  Pauline  nearly  every  afternoon 
during  the  succeeding  weeks.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
Pauline's  lessons  lost  nothing  from  their  social  character, 
and  in  point  of  merit  much  exceeded  those  given  by  the 
self-satisfied  Madame  Sylvestre.  Not  knowing  of  the  sup 
plementary  lesson,  however,  the  poor  old  gentlewoman  was 
much  gratified  at  Robert's  phenomenal  progress.  She  put 
it  down  partly  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  very  intelligent 
young  man,  and  still  more  to  the  fact  that  he  enjoyed  the 
advantage  of  her  own  most  excellent  teaching.  Miss  Car 
penter  was  duly  informed  of  this  gratifying  result,  and 
heard  so  much  about  it  that  soon  she  fell  into  the  habit 
of  speaking  French  to  Robert  at  the  table.  He  felt  him 
self  an  arch-hypocrite,  but  the  satisfaction  of  the  old 
gentlewoman  was  so  genuine  and  childlike  that  he  never 
had  the  heart  to  undeceive  her. 

Robert  had  hesitated  to  accept  so  much  from  Pauline, 
but  in  fact  there  was  no  way  out  of  it.  Furthermore,  he 
soon  discovered  that  with  Pauline's  passion  for  thorough 
ness,  it  gave  her  genuine  pleasure  to  be  doing  something 
useful.  She  might  doubt  the  cultural  effect  of  modern 
languages  taken  ad  libitum,  but  given  a  young  man  bent 
on  knowing  French,  and  the  work  of  seeing  that  he  knew 
it  well  appealed  to  her  strongly.  Whether  she  also  en- 

241 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


joyed  Robert's  society  remained  entirely  problematical,  for 
she  gave  no  sign.  Mr.  Marshall  always  drank  tea  with 
them,  but,  his  third  cup  safely  on  its  way,  he  commonly 
withdrew  to  his  own  room.  Pauline  appeared  wholly  un 
conscious  as  to  whether  Mr.  Marshall  was  present  or 
absent.  She  drilled  Robert  in  the  parts  of  speech  with  a 
thoroughness  that  made  French  grammar  seem  for  the 
time  the  one  object  in  life  worth  living  for.  The  regular 
and  irregular  verbs  passed  in  orderly  procession,  until 
Robert  could  almost  have  conjugated  them  in  his  sleep. 
His  pronunciation  came  in  for  constant  correction. 

Neither  of  Robert's  teachers  could  quite  realize  how 
hard  he  worked.  He  had  left  the  high  school  at  the  end 
of  the  second  year,  and  had  never  acquired  the  study  habit. 
All  he  got,  he  worked  very  hard  for.  But  he  was  willing 
to  work  very  hard.  He  wanted  to  know  French,  and  he 
wanted  to  satisfy  Pauline.  There  was  probably  a  little 
personal  pride  in  this  industry,  but  the  New  England  sense 
of  justice  had  also  much  to  do  with  it.  Robert  realized 
that  this  was  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  even  partially 
repay  Pauline's  very  considerable  kindness.  As  he  ad 
vanced,  their  talk  grew  interesting  for  its  own  sake.  They 
read  French  books  and  discussed  them  over  their  tea.  But 
Pauline  always  selected  the  books,  and  as  a  rule  they  read 
them  separately.  They  were  never  novels,  or  books  that 
by  any  stretch  of  language  could  be  called  imaginative. 
They  were  amazingly  serious,  —  books  of  travel,  scientific 
books,  essays  on  social  questions.  Robert  was  more  and 
more  struck  with  the  masculine  character  of  Pauline's 
mind.  He  came  to  understand  the  attraction  which  the 
law  might  have  for  her. 

242 


ROBERT   CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

Once  or  twice  Pauline  and  Robert  went  to  the  theatre 
together.  But  Pauline  did  not  care  for  plays.  If  necessary 
to  the  understanding  of  some  social  problem,  she  would 
read  them,  solely  for  their  content,  but  the  attempt  to 
give  them  reality  on  the  stage  struck  her  as  absurd  and, 
on  the  whole,  a  stupid  waste  of  time.  She  could  easily 
read  a  play  in  an  hour,  while  it  took  three  hours  or  more 
to  have  it  dragged  out  on  the  stage,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
time  spent  in  going  and  coming. 

Robert  was  too  busy  to  be  very  analytical,  but  he  could 
not  fail  to  realize  that  he  was  leading  a  dual  life :  on  the 
one  side,  a  life  of  prosaic  hard  work,  and  on  the  other  side 
a  life  of  expanding  dreams.  The  association  with  Pauline 
was  matter-of-fact  to  a  degree  that  sometimes  threatened 
to  grow  painful.  Robert  felt  that  it  was  a  safe  anchor,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  could  not  help  wishing  that  it  might 
have  that  lighter  touch  of  the  spirit  which  made  talk  with 
Sappho  and  Miss  Frothingham  a  thing  to  remember. 

At  the  gymnasium,  Robert  had  expected  nothing  but 
hard,  dull  work.  He  had  no  enthusiasm  for  athletics,  and 
always  skipped  the  sporting  news  in  the  daily  paper.  But 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  persevere  in  the 
work,  no  matter  how  much  it  bored  him.  By  rare  good 
fortune,  however,  he  was  not  bored.  Quite  by  accident  he 
had  stumbled  on  a  master  who  was  an  enthusiast  of  the 
first  order,  and  worked  quite  in  the  spirit  of  an  artist. 
With  it  all,  he  possessed  a  deeper  philosophy,  which  rose 
almost  to  the  height  of  a  religion.  He  had  a  way,  too,  of 
seeing  the  best  in  his  pupils,  and  trying  to  bring  the  rest 
of  their  bodily  equipment  up  to  it.  Robert  interested  him. 
Instead  of  dwelling  upon  the  crooked  shoulder  and  general 

243 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


lack  of  muscular  development,  he  saw  only  a  wholesome 
young  body,  unspoiled  by  dissipation  or  abuse.  To  give  it 
greater  strength  and  power,  he  worked  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  inspired  Kobert  to  do  his  best.  At  first  this  enthusi 
asm  merely  amused  Kobert.  He  put  it  down  to  Gallic 
exaggeration.  But  one  day,  after  the  work  had  been  in  pro 
gress  something  over  three  weeks,  the  master  re-measured 
Robert's  slender  body,  and  recorded  the  faint  beginning 
of  an  improvement.  "  We  shall  yet  make  you  a  beautiful 
man,"  he  cried.  "  You  will  be  able  to  do  a  great  work!  I 
could  not  myself  write  a  book,  or  paint  a  picture,  or  sing 
a  song,  or  do  any  of  the  things  that  are  great ;  but  voila, 
through  you  I  shall  do  one  of  those  things.  You  are  my 
agent,  my  messenger.  You  will  do  this  because  I,  even  I, 
Gaspard  Renoux,  give  you  the  strength.  It  was  worth  while 
that  I  lived,  n'est-ce-pas  ?  " 

It  was  then  that  Robert  understood  why  this  patient  old 
master  worked  over  his  own  poorly  developed  body  with 
such  genuine  devotion.  At  one  end  of  Gaspard's  gymna 
sium  was  a  small  office.  It  contained  a  few  instruments 
for  measuring  the  body.  On  the  walls  were  outlines  of 
perfect  proportions,  elaborate  tables  of  proper  weight  and 
dimensions  for  given  heights.  In  a  corner  stood  an  excel 
lent  cast  of  the  Apollo  Belvedere.  Over  the  writing-table 
a  substantial  book-shelf  carried  a  score  or  more  of  volumes 
on  physiology,  anatomy,  and  physical  culture,  in  French, 
English,  and  German.  It  was  the  old  man's  study,  —  one 
might  almost  say  his  chapel.  What  he  worshiped  was 
bodily  excellence.  It  was  a  new  point  of  view  for  Robert. 
He  had  always  associated  gymnastic  work  with  prize  fight 
ers  and  the  whole  family  of  tiresome  athletes,  bent  on 

244 


ROBERT   CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

out-punching,  out-running,  out-throwing,  out-jumping,  or 
otherwise  outdoing  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  themselves 
wholly  uninteresting.  But  this  old  man  possessed  an  en 
tirely  different  goal.  He  cared  nothing  for  such  useless 
displays  of  muscular  power.  He  was  almost  poetic  in  his 
imaginative  conception  of  bodily  perfection. 

Robert's  indifference  once  turned  into  interest,  it  was 
easy  for  the  interest  to  grow  into  enthusiasm.  Yet  all  the 
while  the  incongruity  of  the  situation  held  his  attention. 
The  French  language,  with  all  its  subtlety  and  wealth  of 
literature,  was  for  Pauline  so  much  technique,  and  for  her 
pupil,  in  spite  of  his  desire  to  get  at  the  soul  of  it,  very 
little  more.  The  work  was  wholly  objective,  and  such 
inner  culture  as  Robert  got  out  of  it  was  a  stolen  fruit 
rather  than  a  worked-for  result.  But  with  Gaspard,  sur 
rounded  as  he  was  with  anatomical  charts,  ponderous 
books  on  physiology,  and  the  most  material-looking  appa 
ratus,  the  work  in  physical  culture  was  largely  spiritual. 

Pauline  and  Gaspard  were  both  such  marked  person 
alities,  such  fixed  quantities  in  their  very  different  ways, 
that  Robert's  experience  in  their  hands  was  singularly 
uniform.  With  Pauline  it  was  always  the  same  thing,  a 
hard,  brilliant,  technical  perfection  in  a  language  which  is 
in  reality  the  most  subtle  of  all  modern  instruments  for 
the  expression  of  the  life  of  the  spirit.  With  Gaspard  it 
was  always  the  search  for  beauty,  poise,  usableness,  the 
perfecting  of  a  marvelous  tool  for  the  still  more  marvelous 
purposes  of  the  spirit.  This  reversal  of  what  one  would 
have  expected  kept  up  during  all  the  weeks  of  Robert's 
tutelage. 

Could  Stephen  and  Donald  have  looked  in  upon  the 
245 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


work,  they  would  have  approved  of  it,  at  least  as  far  as 
results  were  concerned.  Robert  was  fast  becoming  an  ac 
complished  French  scholar,  and  more  slowly  the  awkward, 
good-looking  country  boy,  with  the  uneven  shoulders  and 
doubtful  carriage,  was  changing  into  an  assured  man  of 
the  world,  with  so  good  a  bearing  that  Gaspard,  in  his 
enthusiasm,  declared  that  Robert  might  almost  be  mis 
taken  for  a  Frenchman.  To  Gaspard  this  was  fulsome 
praise. 

But  these  experiences,  excellent  as  they  were,  had,  as  I 
have  said,  the  disadvantage  of  too  great  uniformity.  Donald 
in  his  careless  way,  a  way  so  light  as  to  seem  wholly 
unimportant,  and  so  penetrating  as  to  amount  to  a  rare 
insight,  had  always  insisted  upon  the  unexpected  as  an 
essential  element  in  all  culture.  Even  the  symphony,  the 
oratorio,  the  grand  opera  itself,  must  have  its  surprises, 
its  ups  and  downs,  its  level  places  and  its  mountain  peaks, 
or  it  grows  commonplace.  Robert  felt  the  excellence  of 
his  work  with  both  Pauline  and  Gaspard,  but  he  also  felt 
its  monotony,  and  came  to  value  the  free  Sundays  more 
and  more.  Pauline  and  Mr.  Marshall  had  given  Robert 
many  invitations  for  Sunday,  —  dinners,  luncheons,  expe 
ditions  of  all  sorts,  —  but  Robert  steadily  declined  on  the 
ground  of  other  engagements.  Pauline  at  last  saw  that 
he  really  did  not  wish  to  accept,  and  not  only  ceased  to 
ask  him,  but  broke  her  father  of  the  same  habit.  Gas 
pard  had  once  shyly  proposed  a  Sunday  excursion.  But 
even  this  Robert  declined,  and  did  it  in  so  considerate 
a  manner  that  the  old  man  was  not  in  the  least  offended. 
It  would  have  meant  more  anatomy,  and  on  Sunday 
Robert  wanted  neither  French  nor  anatomy.  He  frankly 

246 


ROBERT  CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

wanted  the  unexpected,  the  thing  that  Donald  got  out  of 
life  and  that  he  missed. 

Every  Sunday  Robert  turned  out  of  a  morning  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  expectancy.  The  day  might  bring  much 
or  little,  but  in  any  case  the  gates  of  possibility  were 
open.  It  commonly  happened  that  the  events  of  the  day 
were  rather  trivial,  and  the  New  England  conscience  com 
plained  of  small  returns.  But  an  instinct  lately  aroused  in 
Robert  successfully  downed  the  New  England  conscience, 
and  made  good  its  own  contention  that  the  total  result  of 
those  experiences  was  eminently  worth  while.  Any  one 
Sunday  might  be  uneventful,  but  the  total  impression 
made  by  a  succession  of  Bohemian  Sundays  was  an  educa 
tion.  Robert  had  no  desire  to  see  the  world  in  its  meaner 
aspects.  La  haute  Boheme  was  what  he  sought.  It  was 
hardly  possible  in  Paris  and  on  Sundays  to  go  about  as 
much  as  Robert  did  without  touching  elbows  with  the 
other  sort.  Robert's  freshness  and  good  looks  marked  him 
out  as  attractive  game.  He  had  not  foreseen  this  result, 
and  his  first  encounter  with  the  murky  side  of  the  world 
sent  him  home  shivering  with  disgust.  It  was  a  little 
thing,  —  a  painted  lady  had  spoken  to  him,  —  but  it  vul 
garized  the  day.  He  felt  that  he  must  have  an  immediate 
bath  and  fresh  linen,  and  send  his  very  clothes  to  the 
cleanser's. 

The  next  week  Robert  changed  his  route,  and  took  de 
jeuner  at  another  of  the  little  river  restaurants  frequented 
by  artists  and  the  lively  spirits  of  the  Latin  Quarter.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  freedom  in  both  speech  and  easy  ac 
quaintance,  distinctly  more  than  his  Aunt  Matilda  Pendex- 
ter  would  have  approved  of,  but  Robert  soon  found  that 

247 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


under  all  the  gayety  and  freedom  there  was  a  wholesome 
harmlessness.  His  own  instincts  were  very  true,  and  each 
week  he  trusted  them  more.  On  these  excursions  he  had 
the  curious  feeling  that  he  carried  both  Stephen  and  Don 
ald  with  him,  and  he  tried  with  tolerable  success  to  look 
at  this  lively,  unconventional  world  through  their  larger 
eyes,  —  to  look  at  it  with  Stephen's  common  sense  and 
Donald's  quick  insight.  Sometimes  Robert  fell  in  with  a 
group  that  no  large  charity  could  wholly  absolve  from 
being  a  bit  off  color.  Robert  got  away  as  soon  as  he 
courteously  could,  but  he  no  longer  ran.  He  began  to  see 
the  impotence  of  this  under-world,  and  though  he  hated 
it,  he  no  longer  feared  it.  As  his  own  spirit  grew  strong 
and  free,  he  found  that  he  could  touch  elbows  with  all  the 
world  without  feeling  either  stained  or  degraded. 

It  was  after  several  Sundays  of  such  mixed  experience 
that  Robert  was  returning  to  Paris  one  Sunday  afternoon 
on  one  of  the  small  river  steamboats.  He  had  been  sketch 
ing  most  of  the  day,  and  felt  rather  hopeful  about  the  re 
sult.  He  could  not  make  his  figures  look  other  than  very 
wooden,  but  his  trees  began  to  have  some  individuality, 
and  his  buildings  —  the  things  he  cared  most  about  — 
were  lined  in  with  considerable  firmness  and  accuracy. 
Robert  sat  looking  over  his  sketch-book,  dwelling  par 
ticularly  on  the  sketch  he  liked  the  best  of  all,  the  tower 
of  an  old  country  church.  The  boat  was  well  filled  with 
returning  voyagers.  Robert  had  not  noticed  a  young 
Russian  girl  who  sat  next  to  him,  and  who  also  carried 
sketching  implements.  She  could  hardly  have  avoided 
seeing  his  sketches,  had  she  tried,  and  her  interest  was 
evidently  too  keen  to  allow  her  to  try.  She  was  a  trifle 

248 


ROBERT  CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

amused  that  Robert  should  linger  so  long  over  his  old 
tower,  for  on  the  face  of  it  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  it.  She,  too,  examined  it  critically.  She  pointed  to 
one  of  the  lines  with  her  well-sharpened  pencil,  and  said 
in  excellent  French,  "Do  you  not  see  that  the  line  is 
wrong  ?  It  ought  to  go  this  way  " — and  she  made  a  couple 
of  rapid  strokes  on  the  paper  with  her  own  pencil. 

Some  weeks  earlier,  probably  Robert  would  have 
shut  the  book  with  a  disapproving  snap  and  deliber 
ately  walked  off.  But  now  even  the  impulse  to  do  so  was 
lacking,  for  he  recognized  that  the  girl  spoke  quite  im 
personally,  and  solely  as  an  artist.  "  Is  it  wrong  ? "  he 
asked,  looking  at  it  critically.  "  Yes,  you  're  right.  It  is 
wrong.  Thank  you.  I  will  soon  make  it  right."  Robert 
quickly  pulled  out  his  own  eraser  and  pencil,  and  cor 
rected  the  erring  line.  "  There,"  he  said,  looking  at  it 
with  his  head  to  one  side,  "  it  is  all  right  now,  —  is  it 
not?" 

The  girl  laughed,  a  pleasant,  friendly  laugh.  "  It  is  not 
altogether  right.  But  it  is  better.  It  will  do.  May  I  look 
at  the  rest  of  the  sketches  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  like,"  answered  Robert.  "  They  are 
not  much  good.  This  is  the  best  one." 

He  handed  her  the  book,  and  the  girl  turned  over  all 
the  pages,  examining  each  sketch  quickly,  but  with  sur 
prising  thoroughness.  "You  are  also  an  artist?"  she 
asked  a  little  dubiously. 

"  I  ?  "  exclaimed  Robert.  "  Why,  I  never  sketched  be 
fore  in  all  my  life.  I  just  do  it  for  fun  and  to  help  me 
see  things." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  quizzically.  "  Then  it  is  to  cover 
249 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


up  something  that  you  pretend  to  sketch  ?    You  are  a 
revolutionist,  perhaps?" 

It  was  now  Eobert's  turn  to  laugh.  He  had  always 
thought  of  himself  as  a  very  mild-looking  young  person. 
Then  he  thought  of  what  Stephen  and  Donald  would  say 
to  such  a  suggestion,  and  he  laughed  again.  "  Nothing  so 
lively  as  that,"  he  answered  the  girl.  "  I  am  only  a  wanderer 
and  half -student  just  now.  I  was  a  clerk  in  America." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  some  astonishment.  Then  she 
burst  out,  "  My  God,  you  could  be  something  better  than 
that.  You  might  at  least  be  an  architect.  It  is  too  late 
to  be  an  artist,  but  an  architect,  —  yes,  that  would  be 
possible,  —  if  you  have  the  imagination  !  " 

"  I  wonder  if  I  have,"  said  Robert.  "  My  poet  friend 
says  I  have  n't  any  imagination.  Sometimes  I  think  he  is 
right  and  sometimes  I  think  he  is  wrong.  To-day  I  think 
he  is  wrong." 

The  girl  handed  him  back  his  sketch-book,  and  asked, 
as  simply  as  a  child  might,  "  Would  you  care  to  see  my 
sketches?" 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them  very  much,"  answered  Rob 
ert.  "  If  you  had  n't  been  good  enough  to  offer,  I  meant 
to  take  the  liberty  of  asking." 

Robert  kept  the  book  for  some  time.  It  was  filled  with 
sketches  so  clever  and  so  much  to  the  point  that  they 
made  his  own  work  seem  worse  than  crude.  He  handed 
back  the  book  with  a  sigh. 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  ask  whether  you  are  an  artist," 
he  said.  "  You  are  a  good  one,  and  no  mistake." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  girl,  "  like  yourself,  I  am 
a  pretender !  " 

250 


ROBERT  CULTIVATES   HIS    IMAGINATION 


"  But  your  sketches  are  splendid,"  cried  Robert,  looking 
at  her  quickly  to  see  if  she  were  in  earnest. 

"  Yes,  they  are  very  good,"  she  admitted,  quite  imper 
sonally.  "  I  might  be  an  artist,  if  I  liked.  But  I  am  one 
in  name  only.  It  was  necessary  to  get  the  passport.  They 
would  not  have  let  me  come  from  Russia,  if  they  had  known 
my  real  purpose.  To  study  art,  —  yes,  they  could  under 
stand  that.  But  to  help  my  country,  —  my  God,  they  do 
not  know  what  the  words  mean !  "  The  girl  spoke  rapidly 
and  with  great  feeling.  Then  she  added  with  equal  rapidity, 
"  Do  you  see  that  tall  man  over  there,  leaning  against  the 
railing,  —  yes,  the  one  with  a  beard  and  the  light  overcoat. 
He  has  been  watching  us  the  whole  time.  He  thinks  that 
I  do  not  know  him,  but  I  do.  He  is  a  spy,  and  already  he 
suspects  me.  But  he  is  a  stupid  bear.  He  only  understands 
French  when  one  speaks  very  slowly,  and  when  I  talk  like 
this,  he  does  not  catch  a  word.  He  thinks  we  are  having 
an  argument  over  our  work.  When  you  speak  to  me,  you 
must  speak  either  very  low  or  very  quickly." 

Robert  was  truly  mystified,  "  But  I  do  not  understand," 
he  said.  "  Why  should  you  not  be  in  Paris,  if  you  want 
to,  and  why  should  you  have  to  pretend  to  study  art  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you  are  an  American,"  said  the  girl.  "  You  do 
not  know  Russia.  But  I  think  I  can  trust  you.  Well,  then, 
I  am  here  in  Paris  to  study  chemistry." 

"  To  study  chemistry,"  echoed  Robert.  "  What  for  ?  " 

"  Not  so  loud,"  continued  the  girl.  "  I  study  it  —  for 
a  purpose !  "  Quick  as  a  flash  she  drew  in  her  own  note 
book  the  picture  of  an  exploding  bomb,  and  as  quickly 
rubbed  it  out  again.  "  Now  you  know  !  "  she  said. 

Robert  felt  as  if  he  were  dreaming.  He  looked  at  the 
251 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


girl  with  renewed  interest.  She  could  not  have  been  over 
twenty,  and  was  as  fair  and  innocent-looking  as  his  cou 
sins  at  Bolton.  For  the  moment,  he  ignored  all  the  other 
issues,  and  thought  only  of  the  possible  danger  of  such 
studies  to  a  charming  young  girl  who  could  sketch  so 
cleverly.  "But  are  you  not  yourself  in  great  danger?"  he 
asked. 

"  It  may  be,"  she  answered  simply  ;  "  but  what  is  one 
life?  When  our  country  is  concerned,  we  do  not  know  any 
danger ! " 

Miss  Matilda  Pendexter  would  have  considered  Robert 
in  very  bad  company,  and  would  have  been  still  more 
shocked  could  she  have  known  how  genuinely  thrilled  he 
was  and  how  sympathetic. 

The  steamboat  was  slowing  up  at  one  of  the  landing- 
stages  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  The  girl  rose  hastily. 
"  This  is  my  landing-place,"  she  said.  "  Please  come  with 
me  to  the  gangway." 

Robert  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant.  The  girl  led  the 
way,  and  managed  to  pass  very  near  the  man  in  the  light 
overcoat.  He  stared  at  them  stupidly,  and  pricked  up  his 
ears  as  the  girl  turned  to  Robert  and  said  very  distinctly 
and  very  slowly,  "  I  am  glad  that  you  like  my  sketches.  I 
shall  yet  have  a  picture  in  the  Salon  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  you  will,"  said  Robert,  quite  in  the  spirit 
of  the  game.  At  the  gang-plank,  he  asked  in  a  low  tone, 
"  Would  it  be  better  for  me  to  get  off  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  quite  safe  now. 
Good-by  "  ;  and  she  disappeared  up  the  gangway  and  into 
the  gathering  darkness. 

The  little  steamer  pulled  out  into  the  stream,  and  Rob- 
252 


ROBERT   CULTIVATES   HIS   IMAGINATION 

ert  stood  gazing  into  space.  He  had  felt  a  distinct  sense 
of  disappointment  when  the  girl  declined  his  company, 
though  afterwards  he  acknowledged  to  himself  that  it 
would  have  been  awkward  if  she  had  allowed  him  to  see 
her  home. 

When  Robert  got  back  to  the  Avenue  de  Friedland,  he 
told  himself  that  even  Donald  might  envy  him  the  after 
noon's  adventure,  but  honesty  forced  him  to  admit  that 
Donald  would  have  made  much  more  of  it.  Donald  would 
have  stepped  off  the  steamboat  with  the  girl,  and  would 
have  gone  home  with  her  without  so  much  as  asking  leave. 
He  would  have  met  her  compatriots  and  co-conspirators, 
would  doubtless  have  had  them  all  to  dinner  at  some  queer 
little  French  restaurant,  and  finally  would  have  gone  to 
his  own  lodgings  late  at  night  so  full  of  information  about 
the  world  of  revolutionary  intrigue  that  he  might  ever 
after  pose  as  an  authority  on  Russian  affairs. 

Robert  checked  this  vivid  picture  of  possibilities  by 
remembering  some  funny  cartoons  in  an  old  volume  of 
"  Harper's,"  which  graced  the  library  at  Bolton.  They  re 
presented  what  Mr.  Washington  Jones  thought  he  would 
do  under  certain  circumstances  and  what  he  actually  did. 
Robert  felt  that  his  own  performance  that  afternoon 
brought  him  into  the  same  class  with  poor  Mr.  Jones. 
The  only  comfort  he  got  out  of  the  retrospect  was  that 
at  least  he  had  been  imaginative  enough  to  see  the  latent 
possibilities  of  the  situation,  and  that  this  in  itself  was  a 
slight  advance. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
GREAT  NEWS  FROM  BOLTON 

ROBERT  was  not  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  banker's.  He 
had  so  little  mail  that  the  coming  and  going  of  the  trans- 
Atlantic  steamers  caused  him  no  excitement.  He  had  not 
even  thought  of  asking  to  have  his  mail  forwarded  to  the 
pension.  He  only  dropped  in  at  the  banking  offices  on 
the  Boulevard  Haussman  when  he  needed  money,  and  as 
he  always  drew  a  thousand  francs  at  a  time,  this  seldom 
happened  more  than  once  a  month.  After  his  early  visits, 
he  became  so  engrossed  in  the  daily  routine  of  his  life 
in  Paris,  that  fully  five  weeks  elapsed  before  he  again 
went  to  Morgan's.  Robert  drew  his  customary  thousand 
francs  on  his  letter  of  credit,  and  was  already  making  his 
way  to  the  lift,  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  crowd  of 
tourists  eagerly  inquiring  for  letters  at  the  post-office  de 
partment.  Robert  thought  that  there  might  possibly  be 
a  letter  for  him,  and  so  dropped  into  line  and  waited. 
Even  then  he  almost  gave  up  the  quest,  for  it  seemed  to 
him  that  each  tourist  in  the  long  line  was  slower  than  the 
one  before,  and  they  all  seemed  bent  on  making  the  poor 
clerk  back  of  the  counter  personally  responsible  for  any 
deficiency  in  their  own  mail.  Instead  of  being  irritated, 
however,  the  clerk  seemed  increasingly  amused.  He  was 
young  and  chubby,  with  light  curly  hair  and  dancing  eyes, 
and  no  end  of  good  humor.  In  reality  he  also  had  sharp 
ears,  and  he  had  just  heard  a  pretty  young  girl  say 
under  her  breath  to  her  companion,  "  If  that  cherub  has 

254 


GREAT  NEWS  FROM  BOLTON 

a  letter  for  me  from  Jack,  I  could  just  hug  him ! "  The 
boy  clerk  hoped  that  he  had  the  desired  letter,  and  was 
speculating  as  to  whether  he  might  dare  say  to  the  girl, 
"  I  hope  it  is  from  Jack !  "  So  his  good  humor  increased 
the  nearer  the  pretty  girl  got  to  the  counter.  Robert  was 
just  ahead  of  her,  and  consequently,  when  he  reached  the 
counter  and  gave  his  name,  the  chubby  clerk  sang  out 
"  Mr.  Robert  Pendexter  "  quite  as  a  butler  might  do  at 
some  grand  reception.  The  girl  back  of  Robert  giggled 
and  whispered  to  her  companion,  "  It 's  a  good  name,  and 
he  's  good-looking.  You  'd  better  scrape  an  acquaintance," 
and  Robert  turned  very  pink,  while  the  second  girl  told 
Jack's  sweetheart  how  outrageous  she  was  and  begged 
her  to  hush. 

The  chubby  clerk  looked  in  the  new  mail  and  the  old 
mail.  When  he  returned  with  his  finds,  he  sang  out  in  the 
same  genial  way,  "  Three  letters  to-day,  Mr.  Pendexter." 

Robert  was  too  much  surprised  to  remember  Jack,  or  to 
listen  to  hear  whether  the  much  desired  letter  had  come. 
Nor  did  he  hear  the  pretty  girl  whisper.  "  No  chance, 
Dorothy,  two  of  them  were  in  a  girl's  handwriting !  " 

Robert  carried  his  letters  to  the  reading-room,  and  es 
tablished  himself  in  a  far  corner  at  one  of  the  little  tables 
overlooking  the  Boulevard.  Two  of  the  letters  were  from 
Priscilla,  and  one  was  from  Stephen.  All  bore  the  post 
mark  of  Bolton.  This  rather  perplexed  Robert,  and  he 
handled  the  unopened  letters  for  some  time,  wondering 
how  it  came  to  be.  The  first  letter  from  Priscilla  was  al 
ready  over  five  weeks  old,  and  the  second  one  had  evi 
dently  come  in  the  last  steamer.  It  bore  the  same  date  as 
Stephen's.  Donald  would  have  said  that  the  culture  of  the 

255 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


imagination  had  made  small  progress,  could  he  have  seen 
that  Robert  in  his  methodical  way  passed  over  the  fresher 
letters  without  suspecting  that  their  identity  of  date  car 
ried  any  significance  with  it,  and  proceeded  very  deliber 
ately  to  read  the  old  letter  first.  Priscilla's  handwriting- 
was  fairly  plain  to  any  one  at  all  accustomed  to  the  vaga 
ries  of  feminine  penmanship,  but  Robert  was  not  in  the 
least  accustomed  to  them.  He  found  the  reading  of  the 
letter  a  matter  of  time,  and  some  difficulty.  As  nearly  as 
he  could  make  out,  it  ran  as  follows  :  — 

BOLTON,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
November  eleventh. 

MY  DEAR  ROBERT  :  —  It  was  good  to  have  your  last 
letter,  and  to  know  that  you  are  really  and  truly  better. 
I  have  n't  quite  forgiven  you  for  running  off  and  leaving 
us  without  a  word  of  good-by,  —  I  don't  count  that  scrappy 
little  note  from  Pinckney  Street.  And  Martha  and  Mattie 
are  even  more  outraged  than  I.  They  are  fairly  cross  at 
you !  But  I  must  n't  send  disagreeable  things  on  such  a 
long  journey.  It  was  even  better  to  hear  of  you  and  all 
your  worldly  doings  through  your  friend,  Mr.  Stephen 
Morse.  He  came  out  to  see  us  directly  after  he  landed.  It 
was  funny  to  hear  him  call  you  Little  Pen,  but  I  think 
it's  because  he  cares  a  lot  for  you.  He  didn't  talk  of 
much  else,  indeed,  but  you  and  your  precious  doings.  Mat- 
tie  says  that  our  only  importance  in  the  world,  at  least  in 
Mr.  Morse's  eyes,  comes  from  the  fortunate  fact  that  we 
are  your  own  very  first  cousins !  But  though  it  amused 
Mattie,  and  made  Martha  a  little  snippy,  we  were  really 
ever  so  glad  to  have  such  complete  news  of  you.  It  was  so 

256 


GREAT  NEWS   FROM   BOLTON 

up-to-date,  that  it  seemed  as  if  Mr.  Morse  must  have  flown 
directly  from  you  to  us,  instead  of  coming  in  the  ordinary 
way.  He  assured  us,  though,  that  a  real  steamer  had 
brought  him  to  New  York,  an  express  train  to  Boston,  a 
very  shabby  accommodation  train  to  Hudson,  and  a  fast 
horse  and  a  rubber-tired  buggy  to  Bolton.  I  think  you 
must  have  told  Mr.  Morse  a  lot  about  us,  and  a  whole  lot 
that  was  n't  true !  It  was  day  before  yesterday,  Thursday 
afternoon,  and  of  course  Bridget  was  out.  Martha  and 
Mattie  were  both  dressing,  so  I  had  to  go  to  the  door. 
You  won't  care  to  know  what  I  had  on,  but  nevertheless 
I  must  tell  you,  for  otherwise  you  will  never  believe  what 
followed,  and  as  it 's  all  your  fault  for  telling  Mr.  Morse 
such  silly  things  about  me,  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  spare 
you  one  little  detail.  I  shan't  make  a  separate  paragraph 
of  it  either,  as  Miss  Conant  taught  us  we  ought  to,  for 
then  I  know  you  would  simply  skip  it,  and  rush  on  to  the 
next  to  see  if  there  was  really  any  sense  in  my  letter  after 
all.  Well,  then,  my  dear  Robert,  you  must  know  that  I  've 
been  very  extravagant  this  fall,  and  have  got  me  several 
pretty  new  dresses.  I  know  that  Aunt  Matilda  would  n't 
approve  of  me  at  all,  but  then,  as  Mattie  says,  the  ques 
tion  in  getting  new  clothes  is  not  whether  aunt  would 
approve  of  them,  but  whether  I  've  got  the  money  to  pay 
for  them.  I  have  n't  gone  into  debt,  so  I  have  n't  been  so 
dreadfully  wicked,  I  suppose.  All  the  dresses  turned  out 
well,  both  Martha  and  Mattie  say  so,  and  that,  you  know, 
helps  the  conscience  heaps.  If  they  'd  turned  out  badly  and 
had  n't  been  becoming,  I  should  have  felt  very  wicked.  I 
do  feel  very  wicked  a  lot  of  the  time  anyway,  for  I  do  so 
many  things  that  poor  aunt  would  never  have  allowed. 

257 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


When  the  weight  of  my  sins  gets  too  heavy,  I  go  to  Mat- 
tie  and  confess.  She  cheers  me  up  wonderfully.  She  says 
that  aunt  did  a  great  many  things  that  /  did  n't  approve 
of,  and  that  probably  I  am  just  squaring  up  the  account. 
Is  n't  Mattie  too  funny  ?  I  think  she  ought  to  have  been 
a  lawyer.  At  any  rate,  she  is  an  awfully  good  one  to 
confess  to.  She  has  kept  Martha  and  me  from  doing  a  lot 
of  silly  things  that  Mrs.  Perkins  and  the  other  neighbors 
seemed  to  think  we  ought  to  do,  such  as  dressing  in  black, 
and  keeping  the  shutters  bowed,  and  trying  to  mope  in 
doors  and  feel  a  lot  sorrier  than  we  really  are.  I  hope  you 
won't  think  we  're  all  very  dreadful,  but  really  we  do  just 
the  other  thing,  and  poor  Mrs.  Perkins  is  scandalized.  I 
think  she  would  stop  coming  to  see  us,  only  she  wants  to 
know  just  how  dreadful  we  are.  We  wear  our  best  dresses 
every  day  in  the  week  if  we  want  to,  and  we  have  every 
blessed  shutter  in  the  house  fastened  tight  open,  and  we 
are  outdoors  so  much,  all  three  of  us,  that  we  are  just  as 
brown  as  the  summer  people,  and  are  no  longer  taken  for 
"  natives."  We  have  fixed  up  the  house  so  you  would 
hardly  know  it.  I  mean  inside,  of  course.  There  is  not  a 
single  inch  of  haircloth  in  sight  anywhere  in  the  whole 
house.  Martha  covered  the  best  pieces  of  furniture  with  a 
pretty  French  chintz  that  Mattie  found  in  at  Hovey's,  and 
the  other  pieces  we  just  gave  away  right  and  left.  There 
is  n't  a  single  carpet  left  downstairs,  not  even  that  everlast 
ing  English  brussels  in  the  parlor.  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  We  packed  every  one  of  them  off  to  Bromfield 
Street  for  what  they  would  bring,  and  got  some  new  cheap 
rugs  with  the  money.  Mattie  and  I  started  to  paint  the 
floors  ourselves,  but  the  turpentine  made  us  sick,  and  we 

258 


GREAT  NEWS   FROM   BOLTON 

had  to  get  Mr.  Tuttle  to  do  it  for  us.  The  house  looks  ever 
so  pretty  now.  Even  Mrs.  Perkins  says  so,  though  she 
shakes  her  head  and  seems  to  think  that  it 's  disrespectful 
to  Aunt  Matilda's  memory  to  have  it  look  so  pretty. 
When  Mr.  Tuttle  came  to  bring  his  bill,  we  showed  him 
around,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  so  wide,  I  was  afraid  he  'd 
never  get  them  shut  again.  He  stood  quite  speechless 
when  he  came  to  the  parlor  and  saw  the  new  chintz  and 
the  dotted  Swiss  curtains.  As  he  was  leaving,  though,  he 
found  his  tongue  and  said  to  me,  "  Law,  Miss  Priscilla, 
it's  just  grand.  It  do  look  like  a  different  house."  Mattie 
called  it  a  meaty  remark,  for  she  said  it  expressed  not 
only  Mr.  Tuttle's  opinion  of  the  house  as  it  w,  but  also 
as  it  was.  We  have  n't  done  much  to  the  outside  of  the 
house  yet,  but  next  week  the  carpenters  are  to  put  a  nice 
square  porch  at  the  front  door.  I  am  awfully  glad  that 
aunt  never  would  have  it  done  before,  for  I  'm  morally  sure 
that  when  it  came  to  the  point,  she  would  have  had  ugly 
turned  posts  and  scroll-saw  brackets,  and  would  have  just 
spoiled  the  whole  appearance  of  the  house.  But  now  we 
are  to  have  a  Colonial  porch,  with  quaint  seats  on  each 
side,  and,  thanks  to  your  friend  Mr.  Morse,  an  architect 
he  knows  is  to  draw  the  design  for  us.  Martha  was  afraid 
that  a  Boston  architect  would  be  too  expensive,  but  Mr. 
Morse  said  that  the  house  was  much  too  good  to  be  spoiled 
by  a  carpenter's  botch,  and  that  his  architect  friend  was  n't 
busy,  and  would  be  jolly  glad  to  do  it  for  nothing,  he  knew 
he  would.  I  like  the  way  Mr.  Morse  talks.  Martha  says 
it 's  slangy,  and  that  you  can't  always  parse  his  sentences. 
But  you  always  know  what  he  means,  and  I  never  saw  a 
sentence  yet  that  I  did  want  to  parse.  Earlier  in  the  fall 

259 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


we  had  some  gorgeous  chrysanthemums  on  each  side  of 
the  front  door,  and  we  've  had  those  straggly  lilac-bushes 
cut  down  that  used  to  press  up  against  the  west  windows 
of  the  parlor  and  hide  the  sunset.  When  the  new  porch  is 
finished,  and  the  front  door  and  the  shutters  are  painted 
just  the  right  green,  we  shall  be  very  smart-looking.  As 
it  is,  Mr.  Morse  says  it 's  the  most  distinguished-looking 
house  in  the  village ;  but  that  does  n't  mean  much,  for  you 
know  how  many  houses  there  were  when  you  left,  and 
there  is  only  one  more  being  built  now.  But  I  meant  to 
tell  you  about  what  I  wore,  and  here  I  am  off  on  a  long 
tale  concerning  the  house.  I  had  a  presentiment  Thursday 
afternoon  that  we  should  have  company  and  perhaps  a 
stranger,  so  I  put  on  my  very  prettiest  dress.  Mattie  says 
that  my  presentiments  in  that  direction  are  vivid  enough, 
but  that  they  don't  count  for  much,  as  I  'm  always  moved 
to  put  on  my  best  clothes.  Anyhow,  I  'm  very  glad  that  I 
did  have  the  presentiment  on  Thursday,  and  that  I  did 
dress  in  my  best  bib  and  tucker.  Just  now,  that  is,  since 
last  Saturday,  this  happens  to  be  a  white  serge  dress  that 
is  very  becoming  to  me,  so  becoming  that  Mattie  says  it 
makes  me  look  almost  pretty.  Is  n't  Mattie  provoking  ? 
But  if  she  ever  did  pay  me  a  compliment  without  a  string 
to  it,  I  should  probably  faint  dead  away,  so  perhaps  it 's 
just  as  well  she  never  does.  I  had  n't  worn  the  dress  once, 
for  on  Sunday  it  rained,  and  I  was  too  cross  and  out  of 
sorts  even  to  try  the  thing  on.  Earlier  in  the  week,  we 
had  all  been  too  busy  putting  the  finishing  touches  on  the 
house  to  think  of  anything  else.  It  was  great  good  luck 
that  things  were  all  in  order  again,  and  that  I  had  got 
dressed.  Poor  Aunt  Matilda  never  liked  to  hear  me  call 

260 


GREAT  NEWS  FROM   BOLTON 

anything  luck.  She  wanted  it  called  a  dispensation  of  Di 
vine  Providence,  but  I  never  could  bring  myself  to  it.  It 
seems  to  me  rather  frivolous  to  connect  up  house  furbish 
ing  and  new  clothes  with  Providence.  How  do  you  feel 
about  it  ?  It  seems  to  me  just  downright  good  luck.  But 
I  can't  seem  to  get  to  that  new  dress.  You  might  think  it 
is  very  grand.  It  really  is  n't.  It 's  just  a  simple  full 
skirt  with  those  up  and  down  tucks  they  put  in  them  now 
adays,  and  a  perfectly  stunning  coat,  with  just  the  tiniest 
rim  of  baby-blue  cloth  around  the  lapels  and  on  the  sleeves. 
I  have  a  special  hat  to  match,  a  cream  white  felt  with  a 
broad  brim  and  a  lovely  fluffy  roll  of  blue  veiling  wound 
around  the  crown.  You  see  how  frivolous  I  am.  I  even 
bought  a  brand-new  pair  of  gloves,  long  corn-colored  un 
dressed  kids,  that  are  a  joy.  I  had  put  on  the  whole  thing, 
hat,  gloves,  and  all,  just  to  see  how  they  would  look  to 
gether,  and  was  parading  up  and  down  my  room  in  front 
of  the  glass,  when  the  doorbell  rang.  I  slipped  off  one 
glove,  but  I  had  n't  the  heart  to  disturb  anything  else,  so 
I  ran  downstairs  just  as  I  was.  When  I  opened  the  door, 
there  stood  a  young  man  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  and 
looking  just  as  cool  and  calm  and  collected  as  if  I  were  n't 
standing  there  before  him  blushing  in  the  silliest  way  up 
to  the  very  roots  of  my  hair.  I  knew  at  once  that  it  was 
your  friend  Mr.  Morse,  for  there  was  something  rather 
foreign  and  distinguished-looking  about  him.  He  pulled 
off  his  hat  and  grabbed  my  hand  before  I  'd  had  a  chance 
to  say  a  word.  "  Good  afternoon,"  he  said.  "  I  think  this 
must  be  Miss  Priscilla  Pendexter."  I  said  it  was,  and  that 
I  supposed  it  must  be  Mr.  Morse.  Then  we  both  giggled, 
like  any  school-children.  I  don't  know  whether  I  asked 

261 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


him  in  or  not,  but  somehow  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
parlor.  Mr.  Morse  looked  around  in  surprise.  "  What  a 
beautiful  room !  "  he  said.  "  It  does  n't  look  like  New  Eng 
land.  Really  it  does  n't.  It  looks  like  Paris !"  That  made 
me  like  him  right  off.  Then  he  said,  "And  how  did  you 
know,  may  I  ask,  that  it  was  Stephen  Morse  ?  Were  you 
expecting  me?  "  I  said  of  course  that  you  'd  mentioned  in 
your  last  letter  that  he  was  coming  home,  and  might  come 
out  and  call.  I  asked  him  how  he  knew  that  I  was  Priscilla. 
"  Well,  if  you  must  know,"  he  said,  in  that  funny  confi 
dential  way  of  his,  "  it  was  in  this  fashion.  Little  Pen  told 
me  that  he  had  three  cousins,  sisters,  and  that  the  prettiest 
one  was  named  Priscilla !  "  What  a  silly  you  were  to  tell 
him  such  nonsense.  It  was  dreadfully  impertinent  of  Mr. 
Morse,  too,  and  I  did  n't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  pout. 
But  I  finally  decided  to  laugh,  for  he  was  so  funny  about 
it.  I  answered  back  that  his  argument  was  n't  the  least 
bit  convincing,  for  he  had  n't  seen  Martha  or  Mattie  yet. 
"  That  is  very  true,"  he  said,  sober  as  a  judge,  "  but  I 
knew  they  could  n't  be  any  prettier,  so  I  concluded  they 
were  n't  as  pretty."  How  is  that  for  a  compliment,  up  and 
down,  north  and  south,  right  and  left,  and  without  any 
string  to  it !  I  asked  if  he  'd  been  in  Ireland,  but  he  said 
he  had  n't.  Then  he  seemed  to  notice  for  the  first  time 
that  I  had  my  hat  and  one  glove  on,  and  asked  if  I  were 
going  out,  perhaps  waiting  for  a  bubble  and  a  bubbler. 
I  did  n't  tell  him  that  I  'd  never  been  in  an  automobile  in 
my  life.  Just  for  mischief  I  answered  that  I  might  have 
been  waiting  for  a  rubber-tired  buggy  and  a  flatterer.  I 
did  n't  think  till  afterwards  how  it  might  sound.  I  'm 
afraid  it  sounded  very  forward,  for  he  said,  "  By  Jove, 

262 


GREAT  NEWS   FROM   BOLTON 

that 's  better  yet.  It 's  a  jolly  afternoon,  and  I  was  wish 
ing  as  I  drove  over  from  Hudson  that  I  might  ask  you 
to  go  out  with  me."  I  asked  if  he  meant  it,  and  he  said, 
"  Sure,  never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life.  Come,  there 's 
not  a  moment  to  lose!  "  I  thought  of  course  that  he  re 
ferred  to  the  short  afternoons,  and  suggested  that  the  sun 
would  not  go  down  for  at  least  a  couple  of  hours.  We  had 
got  to  the  gate  by  that  time,  for  Mr.  Morse  was  almost 
running.  He  lowered  his  voice  and  said  in  the  drollest 
way,  "  I  'm  really  too  honest  to  be  a  lawyer.  I  did  n't  mean 
that.  I  meant  that  your  sisters  might  come  down,  and  in 
a  buggy  there  's  only  room  for  two,  you  know  !  "  That 
made  it  seem  more  like  a  lark  than  ever.  You  can  ima 
gine  what  Martha  and  Mattie  thought  when  they  peeped 
through  the  upstairs  windows  and  saw  me  in  my  best  bib 
and  tucker  driving  off  with  a  strange  man.  I  quite  forgot 
to  tell  them.  Martha  said  afterwards  that  she  called  out  to 
me,  just  loud  enough  to  make  her  feel  that,  whatever  hap 
pened,  she  had  done  her  duty,  but  not  loud  enough  for  me 
possibly  to  hear.  What  a  ride  it  was  !  Mr.  Morse  did  n't 
know  a  little  bit  about  driving,  and  the  horse  was  pretty 
lively,  but  that  only  made  it  the  more  fun.  We  went  up 
through  Harvard,  and  as  far  as  Groton  School.  It  was 
after  dark  when  we  got  home,  and  cold  as  Greenland.  It 
was  only  the  thought  that  my  new  dress  was  so  becoming 
that  kept  me  from  being  frozen  stiff.  Martha  and  Mattie 
were  regular  trumps.  They  had  the  house  all  lighted  up 
and  the  loveliest  supper  all  ready  to  put  on  the  table. 
They  guessed  who  it  was,  and  tried  to  have  things  right. 
Mr.  Morse  was  awfully  good,  too.  He  said  he  'd  never  en 
joyed  a  ride  so  much  in  his  life.  Bridget  got  home  in  time 

263 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


to  wait  on  table,  and  in  her  new  cap  and  apron  did  us 
proud.  Every  once  in  a  while  Mr.  Morse  looked  a  little 
surprised  and  puzzled.  What  ever  did  you  tell  him  about 
us  anyway  ?  I  think  he  'd  made  up  his  mind  that  we  were 
back-country  people,  and  ate  in  the  kitchen !  I  'd  give  my 
next  quarter's  interest  money  to  know  just  what  he  thought 
of  us  all.  We  all  thought  that  he  was  delightful,  even 
Martha,  in  spite  of  her  snippy  remarks.  Mr.  Morse  stayed 
until  almost  eleven,  and  he's  coming  out  to-morrow  for 
dinner.  To-morrow  will  be  Sunday,  you  know,  in  case 
you  've  forgotten  the  calendar  by  the  time  this  letter 
reaches  you.  I  hope  you  feel  duly  complimented,  Mr. 
Robert,  for  this  is  the  very  longest  letter  I  ever  wrote  in 
my  life,  and  I  shall  never  write  you  another  one,  not  even 
a  scrap,  until  I  have  a  letter  from  you,  and  almost  as  long. 
Now,  mind !  Martha  and  Mattie  send  love.  Mattie  says 
if  your  verse-maker  is  as  nice  as  Mr.  Morse,  just  to  trot 
him  out ! 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

PRISCILLA. 

Robert  had  begun  Priscilla's  letter  a  little  dismayed  at 
its  length  and  somewhat  regretful  at  having  to  puzzle  out 
so  many  sheets  of  handwriting.  But  the  letter  was  so  full 
of  Stephen  that  he  was  sorry  to  come  to  the  end.  He  pon 
dered  over  it  a  long  while,  for  in  addition  to  giving  such 
a  lively  picture  of  his  friend,  it  carried  him  back  to  Bolton 
so  vividly  that  he  quite  forgot  for  the  moment  that  he  was 
in  Paris.  Moreover,  he  had  thought  of  the  girls  as  stand 
ing  still  just  where  he  left  them.  But  it  was  quite  evident 
that  they,  too,  had  been  blossoming  out.  He  hardly  knew 

264 


GREAT  NEWS   FROM   BOLTON 

the  Priscilla  of  this  lively  letter.  His  conscience,  too,  felt 
a  little  easier  when  he  realized  how  much  happiness  they 
were  getting  out  of  their  small  inheritance.  But  he  re 
solved,  all  the  same,  that  instead  of  having  himself  twice 
as  much  as  they  had  collectively,  they  should  have  collec 
tively  at  least  twice  as  much  as  he  had  individually.  He 
counted  that  their  having  the  house  made  it  right  perhaps 
for  him  to  have  personally  a  little  more  money.  More  and 
more  poor  Robert  realized  what  a  dull  time  they  had  all 
had,  and  more  dispiriting  still  that,  as  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned,  it  had  been  his  own  fault  in  submitting  to  it. 
With  Priscilla's  spirited  letter  before  him,  he  fell  to  won 
dering  what  she  would  have  done,  had  she  found  herself  a 
spice  clerk  in  Doane  Street.  He  knew  pretty  well  that  she 
would  have  got  out  of  it  much  sooner  than  he  had  done, 
and  through  her  own  efforts.  It  was  a  source  of  increasing 
mortification  to  Robert  that  up  to  thirty-four  he  had  asked 
so  little  of  life.  Then  he  remembered  Miss  Frothingham 
and  how  thoroughly  she  would  have  disapproved  of  such 
abasement.  Was  he  not  in  Paris,  and  free?  —  that  was 
what  she  would  have  emphasized  Coming  out  of  his  medi 
tations,  he  tore  open  Priscilla's  second  letter,  still  wonder 
ing  how  she  came  to  write  again  so  soon,  when  she  had 
said  so  distinctly  in  her  first  letter  that  nothing  would  in 
duce  her  to  send  him  another  letter  until  she  had  one  from 
him.  This  is  what  he  read :  — 

BOLTON,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
December  tenth. 

DEAREST  ROBERT  :  —  I  said  I  would  n't  write  to  you, 
not  even  a  scrap  of  a  letter,  until  I  had  a  good  long  letter 

265 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


from  you  in  return  for  that  tremendous  epistle  I  sent  you 
about  a  month  ago.  I  haven't  had  a  line,  not  a  picture 
postal  even,  and  here  I  am,  woman-like,  doing  just  what 
I  said  I  would  n't  do !  But  my  news  is  far  and  away  too 
good  too  keep.  It  is  the  biggest  and  the  greatest  and  the 
best  news  I  have  ever  had  to  tell.  Can  you  guess  what  it 
is  ?  I  know  you  can,  but  I  mean  to  tell  you,  all  the  same,  just 
for  the  pleasure  of  setting  it  down  in  black  and  white.  lam 
going  to  be  married  some  day,  and  to  your  friend,  Stephen 
Morse !  Martha  and  Mattie  are  the  only  ones  who  know 
about  it,  for  Stephen  has  just  asked  me  this  very  day.  I 
want  you  to  be  the  first  one  outside  to  have  this  good  news, 
both  because  you  're  a  very  nice  boy,  and  because  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  you,  there  would  n't  have  been  any  news ! 
Martha  and  Mattie  say  it  is  a  very  sudden  engagement, 
and  they  fear  Mrs.  Perkins  will  be  very  much  shocked  when 
she  hears  of  it,  for  she  kept  Perkins  waiting  three  years 
and  seven  months  to  the  very  day  before  she  would  ever 
promise  to  marry  him.  But  really  it  is  n't  sudden  at  all. 
Stephen  would  have  asked  me  weeks  ago,  if  I  had  let  him. 
I  have  had  hard  work  heading  him  off  when  he  got  dan 
gerously  near  the  subject.  But  to-day  I  just  could  n't  do  it 
any  longer.  I  felt  I  'd  been  a  little  forward  that  first  day 
he  was  here,  and  I  knew  from  the  first  what  I  would  say 
when  he  did  ask  me.  He  almost  proposed  to  me  on  that 
ride  to  Groton  School.  Just  fancy,  dear  Robert,  it  was  the 
very  first  time  we  'd  ever  seen  each  other.  You  are  too 
much  of  an  old  bachelor  to  understand,  but  really  time 
has  n't  anything  to  do  with  it.  When  I  opened  the  door 
that  Thursday  afternoon,  and  saw  Stephen  standing  there, 
I  blushed  so  furiously  because  the  thought  came  to  me 

266 


GREAT  NEWS  FROM  BOLTON 

that  perhaps  this  was  the  man  I  would  marry.  And  Ste 
phen  felt  just  the  same  way  about  me.  Before  either  of  us 
had  spoken  a  word,  he  said  to  himself,  "  By  Jove,  that 's 
the  girl  I  'm  going  to  marry."  Was  n't  it  quick  of  him  ?  I 
don't  see  how  girls  can  dally  over  such  matters,  do  you  ? 
I  should  think  they  would  know  right  off  whether  it  was 
to  be  yes  or  no.  When  I  finally  let  Stephen  speak,  I  just 
put  my  arms  around  him  and  said  yes  almost  before  he  had 
asked  me,  for  I  did  n't  want  him  to  feel  that  my  love  was 
any  less  perfect  and  sure  than  his.  I  think  it  must  be 
simply  dreadful  when  there  is  any  doubt  or  hesitation  on 
either  side.  I  just  wanted  our  love  to  be  without  a  single 
little  flaw.  If  Stephen  had  really  asked  me  that  first  drive 
we  took,  I  should  have  said  yes,  and  the  girls  might  have 
made  all  the  remarks  they  pleased.  Dearest  Robert,  we  are 
so  happy!  I  know  Stephen  better  than  I  know  any  one 
else  in  all  the  world,  even  better  than  Martha  or  Mattie. 
He  has  been  out  here  every  Sunday  since  he  's  been  home 
from  Europe,  and  generally  two  or  three  times  during 
the  week.  But  it  is  n't  that.  It 's  because  our  souls  are 
really  one,  and  I  've  known  him  always  in  my  dreams. 
Stephen's  mother  and  two  sisters  are  coining  out  to  call 
to-morrow  afternoon,  and  I  shall  try  to  look  my  prettiest, 
for  I  do  want  them  to  love  me,  and  to  feel  that  Stephen 
is  not  making  a  mistake  in  wanting  to  marry  me.  That 
would  be  dreadful.  When  I  mentioned  it  to  Stephen,  he 
said  that  such  a  thing  was  unthinkable,  and  that  when  they 
saw  me,  their  only  wonder  would  be  that  so  prompt  a  per 
son  as  himself  had  waited  four  whole  weeks  before  pop 
ping  the  question.  Stephen  says  very  civil  things  to  me. 
They  are  almost  enough  to  turn  my  head.  But  they  don't 

267 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


the  least  little  bit  in  the  world.  It  is  such  a  wonderful  and 
beautiful  thing  to  be  in  love  that  I  am  really  a  changed 
girl.  I  shall  not  care  so  much  about  clothes,  and  I  shall 
not  be  frivolous  or  have  bad  thoughts  about  poor  aunt. 
Dear  Robert,  I  wish  that  you  were  in  love. 
From  your  happy,  happy  cousin, 

PRISCILLA. 

Robert  read  this  letter  twice  before  he  turned  to  Stephen's 
shorter  note.  He  had  been  keeping  this  to  the  last,  not 
only  as  the  more  methodical  proceeding,  but  also,  it  must 
be  confessed,  in  the  same  spirit  that  children  nibble  around 
the  edges  and  keep  the  most  delicious  morsel  for  the  very 
last.  Stephen's  note  was  characteristic :  — 

BOLTON,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
December  tenth. 

I  am  eternally  grateful  to  you,  little  Pen,  for  sending 
me  out  to  Bolton.  It  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight. 
When  Priscilla  came  to  the  door,  I  just  yielded  up  my 
heart  without  so  much  as  a  struggle.  It  was  just  hers  to 
command.  I  never  knew  anything  to  be  so  sudden.  The 
dear  girl  was  so  demure  and  shy  that  I  had  an  uphill  fight. 
Good  Lord,  I  don't  know  why  she  should  care  for  me,  but 
she  does  all  right  and  no  mistake.  From  the  very  first, 
though,  I  was  n't  discouraged.  I  had  the  feel  all  along  that 
I  should  win,  and  now  that  I  have  won,  I  am  as  happy  as 
they  come.  If  anything  could  add  to  my  happiness,  dear 
little  Pen,  it  will  be  the  thought  that  when  Priscilla  and  I 
are  married,  I  too  shall  be  cousin  to  the  best  man  I  know. 
Yours  always, 

STEPHEN  MORSE. 
268 


GREAT  NEWS   FROM   BOLTON 

P.  S.  It 's  ripping  good  fun  being  in  love  —  heaps  more 
than  reading  the  "  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors  "  by  your 
lonesome.  Get  busy,  little  Pen. 

Perhaps  this  little  note  touched  Robert  more  keenly 
than  the  longer  letters  had  done.  He  was  not  deceived  by 
it.  He  knew  that  Stephen  was  always  prone  to  take  too 
favorable  a  view  of  the  late  spice  clerk  and  present  wan 
derer.  But  whether  he  deserved  it  or  not,  the  affection  of 
this  strong,  self-reliant  young  lawyer  was  a  constant  tonic 
to  Robert.  As  he  read  the  note  a  second  time,  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  partly  from  joy  in  the  happiness  of  Ste 
phen  and  Priscilla,  and  partly  from  a  vague  pain  in  his 
own  unsatisfied  heart.  The  proposed  marriage  gave  him 
hearty  pleasure,  for  it  seemed  to  him  in  every  way  beauti 
ful  and  fitting.  He  chided  himself  that  at  such  a  moment 
he  should  think  of  anything  else.  But  as  he  went  down  in 
the  lift  and  slowly  made  his  way  along  the  Boulevard 
Haussman  and  the  Avenue  de  Friedland,  the  pain  grew 
more  rather  than  less.  It  was  the  joyous  certainty  in  all 
the  letters,  the  entire  absence  of  hesitation,  that  cut  him 
to  the  quick.  He  felt  himself  a  poor  sort  of  fellow  that  he 
could  not  know  such  a  triumphant  love.  It  seemed  to  him 
magnificent  that  they  should  both  have  known  at  once. 
He  would  have  expected  it  of  Stephen.  But  Priscilla  ap 
peared  in  a  wholly  new  light.  He  had  thought  of  her 
merely  as  a  lively  school-girl,  rebellious  most  of  the  time 
under  the  severe  rule  of  their  Aunt  Matilda,  and  giving  no 
particular  promise  of  heroic  or  even  unusual  conduct.  He 
felt  a  new  tenderness  for  his  cousin  when,  later,  in  his  own 
room,  he  re-read  the  simple  account  of  her  prompt  sur- 

269 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


render  so  that  Stephen  might  not  for  a  moment  doubt  the 
perfect  completeness  of  their  love.  Robert  would  not  have 
credited  Priscilla  with  such  insight  and  unselfishness.  He 
would  have  expected  her  to  play  with  Stephen,  and  keep 
him  on  the  anxious  bench  for  some  days,  or  even  weeks. 

In  the  face  of  this  certitude  and  dignity,  he  felt  himself 
irresolute  and  almost  contemptible.  His  own  attitude 
towards  Pauline  filled  him  with  shame.  Pauline's  superior 
ity  to  his  own  poor  self  made  it  seem  all  the  worse.  Of  late 
there  had  been  an  added  cause  of  distress.  Robert  had 
never  before  admitted  it  to  himself,  but  he  had  a  growing 
suspicion,  a  growing  fear,  it  might  properly  be  called,  that 
Pauline  was  beginning  to  care  for  him.  The  thought  made 
him  hate  himself.  To  have  Pauline  care  and  to  have  no 
thing  to  offer  her  in  return  was  quite  the  worst  that  could 
happen. 

Robert  considered  the  wisdom  of  leaving  Paris,  and 
going  to  Italy  a  few  weeks  earlier  than  he  had  planned. 
The  increasingly  cold  weather  would  serve  as  a  sufficient 
excuse.  The  announcement  of  dejeuner  came  as  a  distinct 
relief.  Robert  hastily  freshened  up  and  went  downstairs. 
Fortunately,  Miss  Carpenter  was  at  the  table,  and  her  sane, 
wholesome  talk  helped  him  to  regain  his  poise.  She  saw 
that  something  was  wrong  with  Robert,  but  she  gave  no 
sign.  Instead  of  asking  questions  and  inviting  confidences, 
she  gave  him  a  somewhat  detailed  account  of  the  work  of 
the  Ethical  Culture  Society  in  Paris  and  other  social  move 
ments  with  which  she  was  herself  connected.  She  could 
scarcely  have  done  better,  for  it  was  exactly  what  Robert 
needed,  —  to  be  taken  out  of  himself. 

But  the  routine  of  the  day  had  been  too  rudely  inter- 
270 


GREAT  NEWS   FROM  BOLTON 

rupted  to  be  easily  resumed.  Robert  spent  the  afternoon 
in  his  room,  for  the  most  part  writing  letters.  He  wrote 
fully  and  affectionately  to  both  Priscilla  and  Stephen, 
heightening  their  own  happiness  by  so  manifestly  sharing 
it.  They  were  not  remarkable  letters,  but  for  Robert  they 
represented  a  small  victory.  They  contained  no  shadow  of 
his  own  distress,  nothing  but  the  genuine  joy  of  a  friend 
in  the  happiness  of  his  friends,  which  perhaps  shows  that 
in  spite  of  all  his  self-abasement,  Robert  was  not  wholly 
devoid  of  the  heroic. 

Robert  did  not  go  to  Pauline  at  tea-drinking  time. 
Happily  it  was  not  even  necessary  to  send  her  word.  It 
was  understood  that  whenever  he  failed  to  appear  by  five, 
she  would  know  that  he  was  occupied  and  could  not  come. 
Robert  went  out  and  bought  the  three  Baedekers  for  Italy, 
and  resolutely  bent  his  will  to  the  study  of  possible  plans. 
But  it  was  to  little  purpose.  From  five  to  six  especially  he 
thought  of  little  but  Pauline,  and  always  with  the  haunt 
ing  fear  that,  unworthy  as  he  was,  she  might  be  growing 
to  care  for  him.  Then  he  hated  himself  so  fiercely  and 
unreasonably  that  he  marched  up  and  down  the  room  in  a 
very  fever  of  unrest.  The  Italian  guide-books,  in  their 
bright  red  covers,  seemed  to  call  shame  upon  him ;  and 
when  he  tried  to  busy  himself  in  their  contents,  each  rail 
way  route  and  hotel-pension  seemed  to  emphasize  the  reason 
for  his  running  away. 

Robert  hurried  through  dinner.  Miss  Carpenter  was  out, 
and  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to  except  the  young  Brazilian 
beauty  at  the  next  table,  who  spoke  French  divinely,  but 
who  had  nothing  to  say.  Robert  declined  the  solicitous  cab 
man  who  usually  served  him  in  the  evening.  Htf  felt  the 

271 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


need  of  vigorous  exercise.  He  strode  down  the  Avenue  and 
on  through  the  maze  of  streets  leading  to  the  theatre  at 
a  speed  which  called  forth  several  uncivil  remarks  on  the 
part  of  more  leisurely  pedestrians.  The  play  was  a  melo 
drama  of  the  most  improbable  sort.  Robert  followed  it 
with  insistent  interest,  and  all  he  dreaded  were  the  inter 
minable  intervals  between  the  acts. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  UNEXPECTED 

FORTUNATELY  for  Robert,  lie  had  regained  the  habit  of 
sound  sleep.  However  tangled  up  he  might  get  during 
the  day,  —  and  he  had  a  considerable  talent  for  getting 
tangled  up,  — a  night's  rest  brought  him  back  to  some 
degree  of  serenity.  It  was  so  in  the  present  instance. 
On  the  morning  following  the  storm,  Robert  awoke  with 
a  sense  of  renewed  well-being  that  made  the  distress  of 
the  preceding  day  seem  uncalled  for  and  out  of  place. 
The  sense  of  loneliness  remained,  but  he  told  himself  that 
it  was  entirely  fatuous  to  believe  for  one  little  moment 
that  Pauline  could  care  for  so  slight  a  person  as  himself. 
It  began  to  look  fantastic  in  the  extreme  that  he  should 
have  so  sorely  chidden  himself  for  the  lack  of  a  feeling 
for  her,  when  such  a  feeling  could  have  had  but  one  out 
come,  —  disappointment  and  sorrow  for  him.  By  the  time 
Robert  was  dressed  and  ready  for  his  coffee,  he  was  able 
to  fix  his  thoughts  upon  the  usual  plans  for  the  day.  His 
coffee  always  acted  as  a  mild  stimulant,  and  sent  him 
upon  his  daily  routine  with  a  pleasant  expectation  of  suc 
cess.  He  threw  himself  into  his  several  occupations  with 
an  energy  that  tried  to  make  up  for  the  losses  of  the  day 
before.  But  when  afternoon  came,  something  of  the  old 
unrest  came  with  it.  Robert  was  greatly  tempted  not  to 
go  to  Pauline's.  He  had  never  been  absent  two  days  in 
succession,  however,  except  when  he  had  some  genuine  ex 
cuse.  Now  he  had  excuse  enough,  but  none  that  he  could 

273 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


very  well  offer  to  Pauline.  He  told  himself  rather  irri 
tably  that  nevertheless  he  would  not  go,  but  somewhere  in 
his  subconscious  self  he  knew  all  along  that  he  would  go. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  outward  sign  of  rebellion 
was  that  the  clock  pointed  some  minutes  after  five  when 
Robert  arrived  at  the  Castiglioni.  Pauline  was  not  in  the 
salon.  Robert  was  rather  glad  of  this,  for  it  seemed  to 
say  at  least  that  she  had  not  been  waiting  for  him.  In 
a  few  moments  Pauline  came  in.  She  greeted  Robert  as 
she  always  did,  —  with  frank  friendliness.  Her  manner 
was  too  cordial  to  be  cold,  and  too  impersonal  to  be  warm. 
When  Robert  saw  Pauline  every  day,  he  was  less  con 
scious  of  her  individual  quality.  But  even  one  day's  ab 
sence  made  him  conscious  anew  of  this  baffling  something 
which  kept  Pauline  detached  from  every  one,  even  in  a 
way  from  Billy  and  her  father.  With  his  own  heightened 
sensitiveness,  Robert  was  more  conscious  of  this  quality 
than  he  had  been  since  the  first  evening  at  the  Castiglioni 
when  they  had  dined  together.  It  made  him  think  of  Don 
ald's  description,  —  a  natural  history  girl,  —  and  it  irri 
tated  him  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  should  have  set  his 
own  fears  wholly  at  rest.  But  this  feeling  soon  wore  off 
as  he  fell  into  the  swing  of  the  talk  and  the  lesson  got 
under  way. 

Pauline  made  no  reference  to  his  absence  the  day  be 
fore.  As  far  as  Robert  could  see,  she  had  not  so  much  as 
noticed  it.  But  this  signified  nothing,  as  he  quite  well 
knew,  for  with  Pauline's  ideas  of  freedom  and  bigness, 
she  was  not  the  girl  to  chide  any  one  for  staying  away, 
or  to  make  them  feel,  in  however  slight  a  degree,  that  she 
had  any  claim  upon  them  that  would  make  explanations 

274 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


in  order.  So  Kobert  offered  no  explanations.  Apparently, 
everything  was  just  as  it  had  been  before. 

And  yet,  as  the  lesson  wore  on,  Kobert  was  conscious  of 
two  things.  One  was  that  Pauline,  in  spite  of  her  beautiful 
poise,  was  laboring  under  some  suppressed  excitement  that 
made  her  seem  even  more  alive  and  energetic  than  usual. 
Her  color  was  high,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  added  fire. 
And  the  second  thing  that  Robert  was  very  conscious  of  was 
that  the  lesson  was  being  given  with  a  thoroughness  and 
intensity  that  fairly  took  his  breath  away.  He  almost  for 
got  that  as  pupil  he  also  had  a  part  to  play,  so  taken  up 
was  he  with  the  dramatic  passion  of  Pauline's  instruction. 
He  grew  a  little  tired  in  spite  of  himself,  and  experienced 
a  sense  of  relief  when  the  tea  things  were  brought  in  and 
the  lesson  came  to  an  end.  Mr.  Marshall  did  not  join  them, 
and  Pauline  explained  that  he  was  occupied.  She  had 
herself  dropped  into  English,  the  fire  of  the  teacher  ex 
tinguished  or  banked,  and  the  talk  fell  into  the  ordinary 
social  channels. 

Robert  drank  two  cups  of  tea,  —  it  was  particularly 
good  that  afternoon,  —  and  munched  his  biscuit  with  evi 
dent  satisfaction.  He  had  meant  to  leave  early ;  in  fact,  just 
as  early  as  he  decently  could.  But  his  resolution  had 
evaporated.  It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  drink  tea  with 
Pauline,  and  particularly  when  Mr.  Marshall  was  absent. 
Robert  could  not  have  said  exactly  in  what  the  charm 
consisted,  but  he  never  questioned  its  reality.  It  may  have 
been  the  very  quality  which  earlier  in  the  afternoon  had 
irritated  him,  that  is,  Pauline's  objectivity,  her  natural 
history  quality.  Donald  had  said  that  she  was  devoid  of 
womanliness,  but  as  far  as  Robert  could  make  out,  this 

275 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


merely  meant  that  she  was  devoid  of  coquetry.  She  made 
no  appeal  for  one's  attention  ;  she  asked  only  for  comrade 
ship,  and  even  for  that  only  in  case  you  quite  wanted  to 
give  it.  She  was  not  unappreciative,  but  she  seemed  to  say 
in  her  whole  attitude  towards  life  that  if  need  be  she  could 
get  on  quite  as  well  without  you.  Donald,  and  in  fact 
Stephen  also,  regarded  this  as  a  grave  defect  in  a  woman. 
She  must  not  be  too  helpless,  that  is  to  say,  not  helpless 
enough  to  be  troublesome,  but  at  least  helpless  enough  to 
make  a  man  pleasantly  necessary.  Pauline  had  no  trace  of 
this  graceful  dependence.  She  would  have  scorned  it  in 
herself  and  for  her  sex  in  general.  It  was  inconsistent,  but 
this  very  remoteness  which  so  often  irritated  Robert  was 
also  a  constant  source  of  attraction.  His  own  nature  was 
so  sensitive  and  so  easily  shaken  that  he  had  a  boundless 
admiration  for  such  poise  as  Pauline's.  He  could  not  help 
comparing  it  with  his  own  stormy  yesterday,  and  the  com 
parison  was  immensely  in  favor  of  Pauline. 

On  the  whole,  Robert  was  glad  that  he  had  dropped  in. 
Clearly  they  were  just  good  comrades.  It  was  raw  and 
cold  outside.  The  electric  glare  on  the  Rue  de  Castiglioni 
made  slight  amends  for  the  fog  and  gloom  above  it.  The 
sizzling  arc  lamps  beat  back  the  dull  mantle  only  a  few 
feet  at  best,  and  even  then  seemed  to  make  it  more  com 
pact  and  depressing  in  the  process.  The  warmth  and  com 
fort  of  the  Marshalls'  salon  appealed  to  Robert.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  it  was  the  presence  of  Pauline  that 
made  the  atmosphere  of  the  place.  The  lights  were  right ; 
the  tea-table  was  what  it  ought  to  be ;  Pauline's  gowns 
were  always  a  success.  She  herself  had  wrought  the  com 
bined  magic  of  the  room,  and  evidently  cared  to  work  just 

276 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


such  magic  wherever  she  went,  but  she  gave  Kobert  the 
sense  of  personally  rising  above  it  and  not  taking  it  too 
seriously.  She  was  quite  capable  of  sweeping  it  all  aside, 
without  so  much  as  a  quiver,  had  it  interrupted  her  own 
freedom  of  spirit.  All  this  gave  the  salon  the  air  of  min 
istering  to  the  moment,  but  never  possessing  it.  Robert 
did  not  analyze  these  elements  of  the  situation.  He  was 
conscious  only  of  the  charm  of  the  general  result.  Under 
the  spell  of  it,  he  not  only  remained  later  than  he  expected 
to,  but  even  later  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  When, 
at  last,  he  arose  to  go,  Pauline  surprised  him  by  rising 
also. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  as  Robert  took  it  and  mur 
mured  his  good-night,  Pauline  said  in  an  even,  steady  voice, 
"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Pendexter,  but  it  must  also  be  good-by. 
We  start  for  America  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow?  "  repeated  Robert,  in  a  dazed  way.  "  You 
start  for  America  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Pauline. 

"  I  thought  you  stopped  here  all  winter,  and  went  to 
Switzerland  in  the  spring." 

"  We  did  expect  to,"  answered  Pauline ;  "  but  now 
everything  is  changed.  We  are  going  home  !  " 

There  was  such  a  ringing  note  of  triumph  in  Pauline's 
word  "  home  "  that  Robert  looked  at  her  quickly,  and  be 
fore  he  could  substitute  something  more  polite,  he  blurted 
out,  "  And  what  takes  you  home  ?  " 

"  Trouble,"  said  Pauline,  in  the  same  cheerful  tone. 

"  Not  real  trouble,  I  hope." 

"  Yes,"  said  Pauline,  "  real  trouble,  —  at  least  for  my 
father.  It 's  not  trouble  for  me.  It 's  good  news,  pure  and 

277 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


simple.  After  so  much  of  Europe,  I  prefer  Indianapolis 
to  Paris." 

"  But  your  father  does  n't." 

"  No,  he  does  n't,"  admitted  Pauline.  "  He  prefers  any 
corner  of  the  foreign  world  to  any  corner  of  America." 

"  Then  why  is  he  going  home  ?  " 

"  He  is  obliged  to  go,"  said  Pauline,  quietly.  "  You  know 
he  is  president  of  a  company  there.  It  failed  day  before 
yesterday.  It  may  be  that  we  have  lost  everything." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  Kobert.  "I  hope  it  may  not  be 
so  bad  as  that!" 

Pauline  laughed  pleasantly.  "  Thank  you  for  your  good 
wishes.  But  you  ought  to  give  those  to  my  father,  and 
then  congratulate  me.  I  'm  delighted  that  anything  has 
called  us  home.  My  only  fear  is  that  we  haven't  lost 
enough  to  keep  us  there !  This  is  a  wretched  way  to  live, 
—  Billy  at  a  foreign  school,  growing  up  without  knowing 
what  it  is  to  be  an  American ;  my  father  trotting  aimlessly 
about  Europe,  ill  most  of  the  time  simply  because  he 's 
bored  to  death ;  and  I,  as  you  know,  eating  my  very  heart 
out  because  I  've  nothing  useful  to  do  and  no  place  in  the 
world  where  I  'm  really  needed.  I  hope  there 's  not  a  penny 
left.  My  father  is  still  a  young  man.  It  would  be  vastly 
better  for  him  to  have  something  to  do.  Billy  could  go  to 
the  public  school  at  home,  and  learn  to  be  an  American, 
if  he  did  n't  learn  anything  else.  I  am  strong  enough  to 
work  for  both  of  them,  if  need  be, —  and  oh,  I  should  be 
so  happy ! " 

Pauline's  face  was  aglow  with  enthusiasm.  Kobert 
watched  her  in  mingled  surprise  and  admiration.  He  won 
dered  how  he  would  feel  if  he  had  lost  everything.  He 

278 


THE   UNEXPECTED 


could  hardly  imagine  that  he  would  be  happy  over  it.  Per 
haps  his  income  was  too  recent  a  convenience  to  be  given 
up  without  a  murmur. 

Kobert  knew  that  he  ought  to  go.  It  was  already  quite 
time  for  Pauline  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  he  himself  would 
be  late  at  the  Pension  Carpenter.  But  as  the  news  entered 
his  consciousness  in  all  its  significance,  he  found  it  less 
and  less  possible  to  leave.  Instead,  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  salon  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Pauline  had  re 
seated  herself  at  the  tea-table  and  was  quietly  watching 
him.  A  vision  of  what  Paris  would  be  with  Pauline  taken 
out  of  it  swept  over  him  like  an  enveloping  gray  fog.  He 
had  thought  lightly  enough  of  leaving  Paris  himself,  while 
the  Marshalls  were  still  there,  but  to  have  them  go  and 
leave  him  behind  was  quite  a  different  matter.  Then  he 
thought  with  a  great  rush  of  feeling  what  a  supreme  mo 
ment  this  would  be  to  offer  Pauline  his  love,  and  how 
eagerly  he  would  have  jumped  at  such  a  chance  only  a  few 
weeks  before.  He  was  tempted  to  put  all  his  doubts  and 
hesitation  aside,  and  to  risk  everything  in  a  spoken  avowal. 
But  the  words  would  not  come.  He  was  conscious  that 
Pauline  must  think  him  acting  strangely,  that  he  must 
stop  this  nervous  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  and  say 
something,  however  casual.  He  forced  himself  to  stop  near 
the  table.  Pauline  looked  up.  Kobert  asked  lamely, "  Shall 
you  take  Billy  with  you  ?  " 

It  may  be  that  Pauline  felt  the  irrelevancy  of  the  ques 
tion.  She  laughed  a  little  uncertainly  as  she  answered, 
"Oh,  yes,  that's  the  first  bright  spot  in  our  so-called 
troubles.  We  go  to  England  to-morrow,  and  pick  up  Billy 
on  the  way  to  Liverpool.  When  I  had  him  every  day,  I 

279 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


did  n't  much  care,  but  since  he  's  been  at  school,  I  've  been 
fairly  homesick  for  him." 

Both  Pauline  and  Robert  felt  that  a  small  crisis  had 
been  successfully  passed,  and  whether  they  might  feel  glad 
or  sorry  for  it  afterwards,  there  was  a  momentary  sense 
of  relief.  Robert  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite  Pauline, 
and  asked  with  genuine  interest, "  When  do  you  sail  for 
America  ?  " 

"  On  Saturday,  on  the  Coronia ;  that  is,  if  we  can  get 
rooms.  Cook  has  wired  to  the  London  office  for  us.  We 
ought  to  have  word  to-night." 

Robert  drew  a  long  breath.  "  To  think  of  starting  for 
America  on  Saturday !  "  he  said.  "  It  makes  me  envious. 
I  wish  I  were  going  with  you." 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  responded  Pauline,  quickly ;  and 
then  she  added  with  considerable  earnestness, "  No,  I  don't, 
either.  It  has  been  good  for  you  to  be  in  Europe,  and  you 
have  n't  taken  the  full  course.  You  ought  to  stay  the  year 
out.  Don't  go  home  until  next  September." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Robert,  with  rather  tepid  interest ; 
and  then  he  added,  less  selfishly,  "But  you  must  have  a 
lot  of  things  to  do.  Can't  I  help  you?  Can't  I  attend  to 
something  for  you  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  no.  We  are  almost  packed.  We  have  had 
two  days,  and  if  you  set  about  it,  you  can  do  a  lot  in  two 
days.  My  one  difficulty  is  my  father.  He 's  horribly  upset 
over  the  whole  affair,  and  dreads  everything." 

"  Could  I  help  you  with  him?"  asked  Robert. 

"  No.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  go  home  and 
face  the  situation.  It  might  be  so  much  worse.  There  is 
no  dishonor,  or  wrong-doing,  or  anything  of  that  sort  to 

280 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


worry  about.  In  the  end,  the  company  will  be  able  to 
pay  all  its  debts.  The  only  thing  is  that  we  shall  have 
much  less  money,  perhaps  none  at  all,  when  everything  is 
settled  up.  If  I  could  only  make  my  father  see  that  the 
trouble  is  n't  serious,  and  need  not  affect  our  happiness  in 
the  least !  For  myself,  as  you  know,  I  am  almost  foolishly 
glad  over  it.  I  cannot  even  feel  as  sorry  as  I  ought  for  my 
father.  But  in  the  end  it  will  be  better  for  him,  too.  Just 
now  he  is  quite  unmanned.  It  is  not  the  disaster,  —  it  is 
the  aimless  life  he  has  been  leading  for  the  past  three 
years.  It  has  paralyzed  his  will.  He  used  to  be  a  man  of 
force  and  purpose.  It  will  all  come  back  to  him  when  we 
get  to  America  and  he  is  obliged  to  bestir  himself.  Don't 
feel  sorry  for  us,  Mr.  Pendexter.  We  are  not  in  a  bad 
way.  We  Ve  been  off  the  right  track  for  at  least  two  out 
of  the  last  three  years,  and  now  we  're  simply  going  to 
get  on  it  again !  I  can  hardly  wait  to  get  home."  Pauline 
had  risen,  and  once  more  held  out  her  hand.  "I  know 
you  will  pardon  me,  but  I  really  must  go  to  my  father 
now." 

Robert  caught  her  hand  eagerly.  "  I  've  been  a  pig  to 
stay  so  long.  But  I  cannot  let  you  drop  out  of  my  life  so 
suddenly.  Can't  I  go  to  Liverpool  with  you  and  help  you 
off?" 

"  No,"  said  Pauline,  withdrawing  her  hand  gently.  "  I 
could  n't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  I  could  go  just  as  well  as  not.  My  few  engagements 
are  easily  canceled." 

"  It  is  not  that,  but  my  father  would  be  nervous.  It  is 
better  for  him  not  to  see  people,  at  present.  Just  now,  he 
is  overwhelmed  with  mortification." 

281 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  But  I  may  see  you  to-morrow  morning,  may  I  not?  " 
begged  Robert. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish.  But  not  here  —  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord.  The  train  leaves  at  nine  fifty.  Come  at  half-past 
nine.  I  know  we  shall  be  there  by  that  time,  for  my 
father  will  begin  to  fidget  about  getting  off  as  soon  as  it 's 
light." 

44  All  right.  At  the  Gare  du  Nord.  The  express  for 
London.  I  wish  you  'd  let  me  go  as  far  as  Boulogne." 

"  No,  you  simply  must  n't.  It  would  upset  my  father 
dreadfully.  Good-night !  " 

Robert  unwillingly  went  away,  chagrined  that  at  such 
a  difficult  moment  in  Pauline's  life,  he  could  be  of  practi 
cally  no  service  to  her. 

It  was  already  past  seven.  Pauline  had  not  asked  him  to 
stay  to  dinner.  He  wished  that  she  had,  but  he  knew,  of 
course,  that  her  father's  condition  made  it  impossible.  It 
was  too  late  to  get  home  and  dress  for  the  formal  dinner 
at  the  Pension  Carpenter,  so  Robert  turned  into  a  small 
cafe  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  little 
tables.  It  was  a  cheery  enough  place.  The  lights  were  all 
ablaze ;  there  were  growing  plants  about  the  room,  and  the 
walls  were  varying  shades  of  brilliant  red.  But  Robert 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  cheer.  He  was  nervous  and 
excited,  and  the  intolerable  sense  of  loneliness  that  had 
almost  swallowed  him  up  yesterday  now  seemed  to  engulf 
him  completely.  He  declined  the  allurements  of  the  table 
d'hote,  although  the  waiter  told  him  confidentially  that  it 
was  only  three  francs,  good  red  wine  included.  Spurred 
on  by  the  necessity  of  ordering  something,  he  let  his 
eye  wander  aimlessly  over  the  bill  of  fare.  All  the  dishes 

282 


THE   UNEXPECTED 


seemed  equally  impossible.  Robert  did  not  quite  see  how 
the  food  could  get  around  the  lump  in  his  throat.  He  was 
sorry  that  he  had  come  in.  Finally  he  ordered  a  cup  of 
strong  coffee  and  a  roll.  An  hour  later,  he  noticed  that 
the  cup  was  empty  and  the  roll  gone,  so  he  fancied  that  he 
must  have  made  way  with  them,  but  he  had  no  recollection 
of  having  done  so.  The  cafe  was  partly  deserted,  and  the 
proprietor  was  looking  at  him  in  no  friendly  way  as  an  ec 
centric  who  occupied  too  much  space  and  spent  too  little 
money.  Robert  paid  his  bill,  and  rushed  out  into  the 
night.  It  was  still  raw  and  cold,  but  he  was  unmindful 
of  the  weather.  He  had  a  vague  idea  of  walking  home, 
and  perhaps  beyond,  into  the  deserted  Bois.  As  the 
effect  of  the  hot  coffee  wore  off,  Robert  began  to  feel  the 
chill.  He  called  a  cab  and  drove  home.  He  was  glad  to  get 
indoors  and  in  front  of  the  grate  fire  in  his  own  room. 

Robert  did  not  turn  on  the  light.  He  was  in  no  mood 
for  reading.  He  threw  himself  into  an  armchair  and  sat 
there  huddled  up  in  front  of  the  fire,  alternately  hot  and 
cold,  fighting  the  old  circular  fight  of  the  undecided.  For 
a  time  the  warmth  and  comfort  of  the  Marshalls'  salon 
filled  his  thoughts.  He  re-lived  all  the  events  of  the  after 
noon,  even  the  strenuous  French  lesson,  but  he  lingered 
longest  over  the  cheer  of  the  dainty  tea-table,  with  Pauline 
sitting  on  one  side  of  it,  so  manifestly  mistress  of  the 
whole  situation,  and  himself  cosily  established  on  the  other 
side,  content  and  happy.  How  could  a  man  ask  more,  and 
especially  how  could  he,  Robert  Pendexter,  who  had  so 
little  to  offer  in  exchange  ?  He  had  no  right  to  think  that 
Pauline  could  be  in  love  with  him,  but  however  unreason 
able  the  thought,  an  unmistakable  intuition  told  him  that 

283 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


at  least  Pauline  cared  a  little,  and  that  it  rested  with 
him  to  make  her  care  more.  He  might  try  to  deceive  him 
self  if  he  wished,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  at  that 
critical  moment  when  he  had  put  the  inane  question 
about  Billy,  he  might,  had  he  so  willed,  have  bound  Paul 
ine's  destiny  to  his  own,  and  have  had  done  forever  with 
the  terrible  gnawing  loneliness  that,  under  all  the  gay  ex 
terior  of  his  life,  was  eating  out  his  very  heart.  He  might 
have  gone  back  to  America  with  Pauline  as  her  accepted 
lover,  perhaps  even  as  her  husband,  for  she  might  possibly 
have  consented  to  marry  him  in  London.  As  Robert 
thought  of  all  this,  and  let  these  comfortable  pictures  of 
an  assured  comradeship  pass  before  him,  it  seemed  incred 
ible  that  he  should  have  wavered  and  turned  weakly  away. 
So  admirable  a  fate  was  much  too  good  for  him.  He  de 
served  to  lose  Pauline,  to  be  lonely  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 
He  wondered  what  Pauline  thought.  She  was  too  clever  not 
to  have  divined  the  conflict  that  was  going  on  so  visibly 
before  her  very  eyes.  Perhaps  she  had  already  suffered  a 
complete  revulsion  of  feeling,  and  now  despised  him  as 
heartily  as  he  deserved.  Robert  shuddered.  He  could  not 
bear  to  have  Pauline  despise  him,  —  Pauline,  so  strong, 
so  brave,  so  magnificent.  It  seemed  to  Robert  that  he 
could  not  live  if  Pauline  despised  him,  that  he  must  wither 
up  and  die.  Perhaps  it  was  not  yet  too  late.  The  right 
moment  had  gone  by,  but  perhaps  there  might  be  a  second 
right  moment.  He  would  go  to  her  at  once.  Robert 
roused  himself  and  pulled  out  his  watch.  He  held  it  near 
the  fire.  It  was  almost  midnight,  and  it  was  too  late,  — 
Pauline  would  be  in  bed  and  asleep. 

Robert  had  never  thought  of  Pauline  in  terms  of  sen- 
284 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


sual  desire.  The  momentary  breath  of  passion  when,  at 
Gorphwysfa,  he  had  wanted  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  again  in 
the  garden  at  Bowness,  had  so  abashed  his  almost  maiden 
soul  that  since  then  his  feeling,  whatever  it  was,  had  been 
as  innocent  as  a  boy's.  Pauline  had  appealed  to  him  on  the 
artistic  side  of  his  nature.  Her  strength,  her  superb  good 
looks,  her  physical  prowess  and  energy,  her  ability  to  create 
the  magic  of  warmth  and  comfort  wherever  she  found  her 
self,  above  all,  the  unbroken  fitness  of  whatever  she  said 
and  did  and  wore,  had  separated  her  from  the  few  wo 
men  he  had  known  in  America,  and  classed  her  with  the 
beautiful  objects  of  nature,  with  mountains  and  lakes,  the 
seven  seas,  and  all  the  big,  flawless  things.  But  to-night 
there  came  a  new  feeling  that  carried  Robert  into  an 
unexplored  world.  It  seemed  to  bring  the  warmth  of  Paul 
ine's  presence  with  it,  and  to  diffuse  a  strange  tenderness 
over  the  whole  of  life.  The  picture  of  Pauline  asleep 
stirred  new  depths  in  his  being.  Such  a  feeling  had  never 
come  to  him  before,  and  had  it  come,  Robert  would  have 
put  it  resolutely  aside  as  too  great  a  liberty.  But  to-night 
the  curse  of  self-consciousness  had  for  the  moment  spent 
itself,  and  Robert  was  again  one  with  nature  and  with 
life.  There  was  no  mystery  so  sacred  that  he  might  not 
share  it,  no  temple  so  holy  that  he  might  not  enter.  Un 
abashed,  he  stood  in  thought  by  Pauline  asleep.  He  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  He  felt  the 
delicious  warmth  of  her  strong  young  body ;  he  breathed 
the  fragrance  of  her  hair.  He  stood  there  by  a  double 
right,  for  he  had  come  to  comfort  her,  as  well  as  to  be 
comforted. 

A  live  coal  fell  with  a  jarring  noise  upon  the  hearth. 
285 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


Robert  got  up  to  replace  it  on  the  fire.  It  fell  apart  under 
the  too  strong  pressure  of  the  tongs,  and  the  fragments 
paled  into  gray  ash. 

Robert  resumed  his  chair,  but  the  spell  had  been  broken. 
For  the  moment,  he  had  been  sure  of  himself,  but  now 
doubt  had  once  more  entered.  Robert  determined,  however, 
to  act  as  if  he  were  still  sure.  These  eternal  doubts  were 
after  all  a  mere  feebleness  of  the  will.  He  would  go  to  the 
Gare  du  Nord  very  early  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  be  on 
hand  when  the  Marshalls  arrived.  He  would  see  Mr.  Mar 
shall  safely  established  in  his  compartment  and  all  the  tire 
some  luggage  stowed  away.  Then  Pauline  and  he  would 
walk  up  and  down  the  platform  together.  They  would  have 
at  least  twenty  minutes,  perhaps  half  an  hour.  It  would 
not  be  so  ideal  a  spot  as  the  petit  salon  on  the  upper  floor 
of  the  Castiglioni,  but  he  would  not  play  the  fool  again. 
Come  what  would,  he  would  — 

"  Would  he  ?  "  cried  a  mocking  inner  voice,  the  voice  of 
an  apparent  second  self. 

Robert  flung  himself  out  of  his  chair.  "  Yes,"  he  cried 
aloud.  "  By  all  that 's  good,  I  swear  I  —  "  But  again 
he  was  arrested  before  his  oath  found  record.  It  was  not 
this  time  by  the  mocking  inner  voice,  but  by  a  swift 
vision.  He  stood  inside  a  great  Minster  in  an  ecstasy  of 
spiritual  awakening.  The  organ  sent  out  vast  waves  of 
pulsating,  throbbing  sound.  The  clear,  high  voices  of  the 
choir  filled  the  void  spaces  of  the  great  Minster  with  haunt 
ing  beauty.  The  light  filtered  through  the  stained  glass 
windows  and  illumined  the  fluted  columns  of  the  nave. 
Stephen  and  Donald  were  there.  Sappho  and  Miss  Froth- 
ingham  were  moving  towards  them.  Robert  himself  was 

286 


THE   UNEXPECTED 


nowhere,  because  by  a  divine  transfiguration  he  had  en 
tered  for  the  moment  into  the  spirit  of  the  whole.  He  was 
the  light,  the  tracery,  the  song.  But  always  Pauline  stood 
without  the  door.  Once  more  he  realized  with  a  sobbing 
heart-ache  that  in  this  world  of  the  spirit  she  could  not 
enter.  He  did  not  himself  always  live  in  it.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  the  beautiful  body  of  the  world  and  the  fire 
of  its  heart  sufficed  him,  and  with  its  abundant  warmth 
and  comfort  he  was  content.  It  was  at  such  moments  that 
Pauline  held  out  her  arms  to  him,  —  Pauline,  who  repre 
sented  at  their  best  this  body  and  this  heart.  But  his  real 
home  was  in  the  world  of  the  spirit,  in  that  world  which 
had  been  revealed  to  him  in  the  wonderful  moment  at  York 
Minster,  —  a  world  which  he  had  not  yet  explored,  but  one 
that  was  always  calling  him,  —  a  call  that  was  the  heart  of 
all  his  loneliness  and  discontent. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Robert  went  to  bed. 
He  was  emotionally  spent,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  a  great 
weariness. 

Shortly  after  the  wintry  daylight  came  straggling  into 
his  room,  Robert  aroused  himself  and  dressed.  Just  what 
he  would  say  to  Pauline,  he  hardly  knew,  but  he  meant 
that  it  should  be  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  friendly 
parting.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  Gare  du  Nord,  it 
was  only  quarter  past  nine.  The  Marshalls  were  not  there. 
Robert  paced  up  and  down  the  first-class  waiting-room, 
fearful  one  moment  that  he  might  miss  them,  and  anxious 
the  next  lest  when  they  did  come  he  should  not  say  and  do 
the  right  thing.  It  was  half-past  nine,  and  still  the  Mar 
shalls  did  not  appear.  By  quarter  of  ten,  Robert  was  gen 
uinely  uneasy  on  their  own  account,  thinking  that  perhaps 

287 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


Mr.  Marshall  was  too  ill  to  travel.  At  ten  minutes  of  ten 
the  train  moved  off.  Robert  noticed  that  the  guard  called 
Calais-Dover,  and  he  remembered,  he  thought,  that  Paul 
ine  had  said  they  were  going  by  Boulogne. 

Robert  took  a  cab  and  drove  hastily  to  the  Castiglioni, 
only  to  find  that  the  Marshalls  had  gone.  The  porter  re 
membered  that  they  had  left  early,  earlier  he  thought  than 
they  expected  to,  and  they  had  certainly  directed  the  cab 
to  proceed  to  the  Gare  du  Nord,  for  he  himself  had  told 
the  cabman. 

More  perplexed  than  ever,  Robert  returned  to  the  Pen 
sion  Carpenter.  He  remained  in  his  room  all  morning. 
When  he  went  down  to  luncheon,  he  found  a  note  at  his 
place.  It  was  from  Pauline,  and  had  evidently  been  brought 
by  a  private  messenger.  She  wrote  in  great  haste  to  say 
that  she  had  stupidly  got  the  London  trains  mixed  up,  and 
that  the  Boulogne  train  left  at  eight  twenty-five  instead  of 
at  nine  fifty.  She  was  too  sorry  to  have  put  him  to  any 
inconvenience.  Her  father  joined  her  in  friendly  good-bys 
and  best  wishes. 

Robert  puzzled  over  the  note  all  the  afternoon.  It  was 
like  Pauline  to  drag  her  father  in,  and  by  making  the  note 
so  impersonal,  keep  it  from  saying  anything.  The  mistake 
about  the  trains  was  genuine,  he  was  sure  of  that,  for  Paul 
ine  was  quite  too  honest  to  descend  to  any  fibbing.  But  the 
question  that  bothered  Robert  was  as  to  when  she  had  found 
out  the  mistake,  and  whether,  had  she  so  wished,  she  might 
not  have  got  him  word  in  time.  He  was  quite  at  sea.  It 
might  be  that  Pauline  discovered  her  mistake  at  the  last 
moment  and  really  could  not  let  him  know  sooner ;  or  it 
might  be  that  she  had  taken  advantage  of  the  mistake  to 

288 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


avoid  seeing  him  again.  The  note  itself  was  entirely  non 
committal.  If  she  had  avoided  him,  she  had  done  it  hon 
estly,  she  had  a  perfect  right  to  do  it,  and  he  did  not  blame 
her  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world.  But  it  would  have  been 
a  great  comfort  to  know  that  she  had  n't. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Robert  found  that  Paris  with 
out  Pauline  seemed  suddenly  very  empty. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
COCUMELLA 

IT  was  early  in  March  when  Robert  reached  Cocumella. 
He  had  imagined  that  Italy  was  a  warm  country,  and  had 
gone  to  San  Remo,  thinking  to  be  very  comfortable,  and 
to  wait  there  for  the  spring  and  a  propitious  season  for  vis 
iting  the  interior  hill  towns.  But  February  had  been  un 
usually  severe,  and  every  few  days  he  had  moved  farther 
south,  expecting  to  catch  up  with  the  heat.  He  came  to 
feel  as  if  he  were  being  pursued  by  the  demon  of  cold.  At 
Rome  he  had  spent  a  whole  morning  hunting  an  apart 
ment  with  full  southern  exposure,  only  to  discover  that  the 
Italian  sun  in  winter  is  not  a  very  dependable  heater,  and 
that  the  apology  for  a  stove  in  his  grand  apartment  could 
not  keep  him  from  shivering.  When  he  complained,  they 
told  him  quite  seriously  that  if  he  really  wanted  to  keep 
warm,  he  ought  to  go  to  Russia,  for  there  they  were  pre 
pared  for  the  cold.  But  Robert  had  no  desire  to  go  to  Rus 
sia,  and  so  continued  to  move  south.  He  had  a  humorous 
feeling  that  he  might  eventually  land  in  Sicily,  or  even  in 
Africa,  and  he  wondered  how  poor  Donald  was  making  it 
in  Berlin.  It  was  quite  without  expectation  of  finding  a 
permanent  abiding-place  that  Robert  turned  towards  Sor 
rento.  He  liked  the  name,  and  he  recalled  that  Sappho  and 
Miss  Frothingham  might  possibly  be  there  in  March.  He 
had  grown  accustomed  to  being  lonely,  and  was  bearing 
himself  better  than  in  Paris,  but  nevertheless,  the  prospect 
of  having  such  pleasant  company  was  a  great  attraction. 

290 


COCUMELLA 


It  was,  after  all,  a  mere  possibility  that  he  might  run 
across  the  two  ladies,  so  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  count 
upon  it. 

Tucked  away  as  it  is,  near  the  end  of  its  own  peninsula, 
Sorrento  seems  at  first  sight  almost  as  inaccessible  as  para 
dise,  but  like  paradise,  it  is  easy  enough  to  get  there  when 
you  once  know  the  road.  On  the  great  half-moon  of  the 
Bay  of  Naples,  the  two  cities  face  each  other,  the  excitable 
Naples  near  the  horn  of  the  northern  half  and  the  serene 
Sorrento  near  the  horn  of  the  southern  half.  Every  morn 
ing  during  the  season,  the  white-painted,  broad-bellied, 
double  smoke-stacked  Nixe  leaves  her  Neapolitan  mooring 
and  its  perennial  excitement,  to  make  a  clear  thirteen-mile 
line  across  the  waters  to  the  quiet  beauty  of  Sorrento.  The 
foam  in  her  wake  traces  a  long  white  line  across  the  blue 
waters.  Like  a  giant  swan,  she  descends  upon  the  head 
lands  ;  and  the  little  boats,  in  answer  to  her  whistling  call, 
crowd  around  her  like  so  many  water-beetles  around  a 
majestic  waterfowl.  For  a  moment  she  comes  to  rest,  and 
one  by  one  the  little  boats  snuggle  up  to  her  to  give  or 
take  their  cargoes  of  present  day  money-makers,  —  Ameri 
can,  English,  or  German.  Another  whistle  and  the  Nixe 
skirts  the  headlands  of  the  Capo  di  Sorrento,  and  heads  off 
across  the  lovely  waters  to  the  enchanted  island  of  Capri. 
This  is  in  the  early  part  of  the  day,  a  little  past  ten. 
Shortly  after  five  the  Nixe  returns  from  Capri  with  more 
Americans,  English,  and  Germans,  and  after  a  friendly 
salute  in  the  way  of  a  deep  bass  whistle,  is  off  once  more 
to  the  human  fever  of  Naples. 

Robert's  experience  on  the  Republic  had  given  him  a 
fondness  for  boats,  large  and  small.  He  meant  to  take  the 

291 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


Nixe  over  to  Sorrento,  and  early  on  the  morning  following 
his  arrival  in  Naples,  he  drove  down  to  the  landing-place. 
When  he  looked  across  the  waters,  however,  and  saw  the 
enchanting  country  that  surrounds  the  Bay,  he  changed 
his  mind,  and  hastily  drove  to  the  railway  station.  He  got 
there  just  in  time  to  catch  the  early  train  to  Castellamare. 
It  is  about  an  hour's  run.  The  railway  skirts  the  beautiful 
Bay,  and  makes  its  path  through  the  Vesuvian  ash-piles 
and  lava  streams  to  the  foot  of  a  gray,  forbidding  wall  of 
rock,  the  Monte  Sant'  Angelo.  Here  lies  Castellamare,  still 
ten  miles  from  Sorrento.  They  say  in  Naples  that  Castel 
lamare  is  the  dirtiest  city  in  Italy,  but  in  other  quarters 
of  the  world  it  is  also  said  that  pot  must  n't  call  kettle 
black.  Kobert  was  quite  undismayed,  —  why  bother  with 
the  foreground  when  the  background  is  so  superb  ?  —  also, 
he  was  not  going  to  stop  in  Castellamare. 

At  the  railway  station  there  is  a  particularly  officious 
and  offensive  person,  a  self-appointed  factotum.  He  speaks 
English,  but  his  vocabulary  is  very  limited,  and  when  he 
gets  to  the  end  he  cheerfully  begins  over  again,  and  then 
a  second  time,  and  so  on,  indefinitely.  This  jargon  of 
familiar  words  without  ideas  produces  a  certain  vertigo, 
and  Robert  handed  over  his  luggage,  his  small  coin,  and 
himself  without  the  least  show  of  resistance.  But  his  jour 
ney  to  Sorrento  was  in  no  way  furthered.  The  function  of 
the  factotum  is  pure  obstruction.  He  distributed  Robert's 
luggage  to  as  manyfacchini  as  possible,  and  created  con 
fusion  in  the  minds  of  the  cab-drivers.  In  any  other  coun 
try,  Robert  the  practical  would  have  been  angry.  But  in 
Italy,  it  was  Robert  the  dreamer.  In  the  face  of  such  all- 
pervading  beauty,  the  little  details  of  life  seemed  quite 

292 


COCUMELLA 


unimportant.  Robert  had  learned  a  little  Italian,  enough 
to  travel  by,  and  with  its  help  and  still  more  patience  he 
finally  gathered  his  traps  together  again.  After  exciting 
interviews  with  what  seemed  to  him  about  half  the  popu 
lation  of  the  place,  he  succeeded  in  hiring  a  crazy-looking 
cab  to  take  him  and  his  possessions  out  to  Sorrento.  Even 
then  the  driver  stopped  a  number  of  times  and  addressed 
a  torrent  of  remarks  to  Robert,  but  whether  these  had  to 
do  with  the  scenery,  or  local  history,  or  the  inadequacy 
of  cab  fares,  Robert's  knowledge  of  Italian  was  too  limited 
to  enable  him  even  to  guess. 

The  drive  was  ten  miles  of  delight.  Even  Robert's 
glimpse  of  the  Riviera  had  not  prepared  him  for  such  color 
and  such  beauty.  They  seemed  to  him  almost  like  com 
panions,  brooding  presences  that  made  it  impossible  to  be 
lonely. 

On  one  side  of  the  drive,  to  his  left,  he  had  the  jagged 
limestone  cliffs  flanking  the  Monte  Sant'  Angelo,  with 
scant  herbage  of  heather  and  broom,  and  cruel-looking 
boulders  apparently  waiting  to  crush  just  such  pigmies 
as  himself.  On  the  other  side  there  was  a  wall,  gray  and 
lichen-covered ;  over  the  wall,  a  precipice,  showing  on  oc 
casional  terraces  a  few  stray  olive  trees,  or  the  glossy  dark 
green  of  the  caruba  tree ;  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice, 
advancing  and  retreating,  were  the  multi-colored  waters 
of  the  ever-beautiful  Bay  of  Naples.  Far  out,  the  waters 
show  that  marvelous  even  blue  for  which  they  are  cele 
brated  the  world  over,  but  it  is  along  the  shore  line  that 
one  sees  the  greatest  beauty.  Here,  it  is  not  salt  water  that 
one  sees,  but  the  open  pigment-case  of  some  gay-hearted 
painter  bent  on  making  an  impossible  aquarelle.  The  blues 

293 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


do  not  fade  into  one  another.  They  are  in  distinct  patches, 
here  a  mass  of  exquisite  turquoise  against  a  setting  of  royal 
sapphire,  there  a  long  streamer  of  blue,  caught  from  the 
very  sky  itself,  and  trailing  over  turquoise  and  sapphire 
as  if  the  owner  of  the  pigment-case  had  wantonly  smeared 
a  film  of  china  white  over  his  cobalts  and  Prussian  blues. 
The  color  is  a  very  real  thing,  and  apparently  no  trick  of 
reflection,  no  mere  reaction  in  the  soul  of  the  beholder. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Robert  searched  the  masses  of  gray 
limestone  with  bewildered  eyes  to  see  if  they  also,  where 
the  waters  had  swept  over  them,  were  not  besmeared  with 
blue. 

And  all  the  while  the  blue-stained  waters  mockingly 
advance  and  retreat,  fraying  themselves  into  white  foam, 
and  bearing  their  patches  as  jauntily  as  a  Neapolitan 
beggar  his  rags. 

At  Vico  Equense  the  road  twists  itself  back  from  the 
sea  into  a  graceful  horseshoe,  crossing  the  little  valley  that 
made  this  detour  necessary  on  a  high  stone  bridge  many- 
arched  and  beautiful.  Robert  had  the  carriage  stop.  Down 
the  valley  he  saw  on  each  side  steep,  terraced  gardens, 
planted  in  the  gray  green  of  the  olive,  and  here  and  there 
in  the  warmer  green  of  orange  and  lemon  tree,  partly 
covered  by  straw  mats  to  keep  off  the  sometime  invading 
frost.  Between  this  setting  of  green  he  caught  glimpses 
of  the  water  and  the  straight,  restful  line  of  the  opposite 
coast.  From  the  midst  of  the  orchards  rose  the  pink  and 
the  white  houses,  either  singly  or  in  picturesque  groups, 
and  higher  than  all,  the  tower  of  a  church  giving  a  touch 
of  the  distant  East  in  its  minaret-like  roof  covered  with 
tiles  of  green  and  yellow.  Up  the  valley,  Robert  saw  steep 

294 


COCUMELLA 


billows  of  silvery  green,  the  orchards  of  thickly  planted 
olive,  with  only  an  occasional  country-house,  and  ending 
in  a  wild  tangle  of  gray  mountains,  whitened  here  and 
there  with  snow. 

With  a  sigh  of  regret,  Robert  had  the  carriage  drive 
on.  After  that  the  road  dashed  through  the  picturesque 
village  of  Marina  di  Equa,  and  Robert  found  himself  high 
above  the  water  in  the  midst  of  prosperous  olive  orchards. 
If  you  are  sensitive  to  such  things,  it  is  a  distinct  pleasure 
to  look  down  into  the  blue  depths  through  the  delicate 
silver-green  of  the  olive.  It  is  not  an  unusual  experience 
in  Italy,  but  it  never  came  to  Robert  without  an  answer 
ing  thrill. 

When  the  road  emerges  from  the  olives,  it  comes  out 
on  a  bold  promontory,  and  one  catches  a  first  glimpse  of 
the  Piano  di  Sorrento,  so  wonderful  in  its  beauty  that  it 
seems  a  veritable  Garden  of  Eden.  The  Piano  is  a  gener 
ous  sheet  of  lava,  extending  for  three  or  four  miles  along 
the  shore,  and  perhaps  a  mile  wide.  On  three  sides  it  is 
bounded  by  a  wall  of  gray  mountains,  and  on  the  fourth 
by  the  "  loud-sounding,"  tideless  sea.  The  Piano  breaks 
off  at  the  shore  into  wild,  perpendicular  cliffs,  a  hundred 
feet  in  height,  sometimes  rising  in  warm  reddish  walls  di 
rectly  from  the  waves,  sometimes  allowing  a  narrow  stretch 
of  dark  gray  beach,  where  bare-legged  fishermen  pull  in 
their  nets,  and  the  tax-gatherer  takes  his  tare.  From  the 
cliff  edge,  the  Piano  slopes  gently  upwards  towards  the 
encircling  mountains.  The  whole  plain  is  a  brilliant  green, 
interrupted  by  small  patches  of  white  and  of  pink.  The 
green  is  the  glossy  leafage  of  orange  and  lemon  trees, 
which  show,  when  one  comes  nearer,  abundant  golden 

295 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


globes  and  pale  yellow  waxy  pendents.  Here  and  there, 
as  if  placed  by  some  artist  of  consummate  skill,  rise  the 
mighty  stone  pines,  the  glory  of  Italian  landscape,  their 
clean  red  trunks  towering  straight  and  proud  above  the 
humbler  fruit-bearers,  and  spreading  out  on  high  into  a 
gorgeous  umbrella,  with  ribs  of  warm  red  and  cover  of 
never-fading  velvet-green.  The  whites  and  pinks  are  the 
houses  of  Meta  and  Sant'  Agnello  and  Sorrento. 

It  is  about  a  mile  of  gradual  descent  to  the  level  of 
the  Piano.  The  splendid  roadway  is  partly  cut  in  the 
rock  itself,  and  partly  supported  on  massive  walls  and 
arches. 

Once  down  on  the  Piano,  and  the  road  crosses  it  about 
midway.  It  is  now  engulfed  between  high  garden  walls, 
or  runs  through  the  damp,  narrow  streets  of  the  almost 
continuous  villages.  These  tortuous  labyrinths  lack  the 
glory  of  the  open,  intoxicating  roads,  but  they  have  a 
beauty  all  their  own.  The  garden  walls  on  each  side  are 
built  of  square  blocks  of  lava,  the  warm  reddish  tone 
shining  through  the  deeper  browns  like  the  red  blood  in 
the  brown  faces  of  the  children  playing  near  them.  It 
seemed  to  Robert  almost  as  if  this  red-washed  stone  still 
held  the  smouldering  fires  of  bygone  eruptions.  But  the 
destructive  humor  is  past,  and  the  present  mood  is  wholly 
beneficent.  The  lava  changes  into  the  most  fertile  of  soils, 
and  nourishes  where  it  once  made  havoc.  The  blocks  in 
these  old  walls  have  crumbled  on  their  edges,  and  in  this 
hospitable  soil  dainty  ferns  and  wild  flowers  have  now 
taken  up  their  abode,  and  trace  out  the  squares  in  lines 
of  living  green.  On  top,  where  sun  and  rain  and  air  have 
had  still  better  chance,  the  lava  has  crumbled  into  deeper 

296 


COCUMELLA 


earth  and  bears  a  tender  fringe  of  maiden-hair,  casting  its 
own  shadows  of  velvet  moss. 

Stretching  over  the  walls,  as  if  bent  upon  a  little  pri 
vate  munificence,  the  orange  and  the  lemon  trees  fling  out 
branches  of  rich,  glossy  green,  studded  with  golden  and 
with  yellow  fruit.  Still  farther  overhead  there  is  a  ribbon 
of  blue  sky.  One  cannot  see  much  of  it,  but  for  this  nig 
gardliness  it  amply  atones  by  its  superb  quality. 

Robert  drew  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction.  But  it  seemed 
wicked  to  be  going  even  at  his  present  modest  speed.  To 
crawl  along,  and  every  few  yards  to  stand  quite  still, 
would  hare  seemed  more  reverent. 

The  road  makes  unexpected  turns  and  angles,  and  is 
occasionally  intersected  by  narrower  lanes,  where  patient 
donkeys  trot  along  under  their  top-heavy  burdens,  and  the 
girls  and  women,  straight  as  arrows,  fetch  firewood  or  pro 
vender  on  their  well-poised  heads.  From  time  to  time  there 
is  a  wayside  shrine,  speaking  to  the  heart  of  an  ideal  world 
even  fairer  than  this  fair  Piano.  Sometimes  on  top  of  the 
wall  are  perched  little  summer-houses  with  single  or  double 
arch  turned  towards  the  road,  and  from  this  point  of  van 
tage  showing  their  graceful  vaulted  ceilings  like  so  many 
interesting  studies  in  perspective.  And  sometimes,  if  one 
look  sharply  enough,  one  will  catch  a  pair  of  laughing 
brown  eyes,  —  watching  for  some  one  else. 

Long  stretches  of  the  road  are  silent  and  seemingly  de 
serted,  but  however  full  one's  heart,  it  will  not  do  to  burst 
into  song,  unless  one  is  pretty  sure  of  one's  notes,  for  there 
are  ears  as  well  as  eyes  alert.  Up  in  the  trees  a  barefooted, 
sweet-faced  boy  is  cutting,  twining,  pruning,  while  leaning 
against  the  wall,  too  quiet  to  be  noticed,  is  a  charming  little 

297 
i 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


peasant  girl,  wondering,  perhaps,  why  it  is  that  the  Ameri 
cans  and  English  and  Germans  all  have  so  much  more 
money  than  the  Italians. 

Robert,  too,  was  wondering.  But  he  found  part  of  the 
answer  to  his  query  at  the  next  corner  in  the  shabby  little 
building  that  stands  there  as  a  symbol  of  misgovernment. 
It  contains  a  pair  of  scales,  a  lantern,  a  shabby  account- 
book,  and  two  able-bodied  men,  who  would  much  better  be 
doing  something  else.  It  is  the  home  of  the  tax-gatherer. 
Every  bit  of  food  brought  down  from  the  hillside,  every 
fisher's  net  pulled  out  of  the  sea,  every  donkey  panier  of 
goods  creeping  along  these  lovely  roads  must  pay  its  tax. 
And  these  beautiful  gardens,  walled  in  with  such  apparent 
penuriousness,  must  needs  harbor  every  resource,  for  the 
tax-gatherer  comes  around  once  every  two  months,  —  six 
times  a  year !  And  the  handsome  signore,  to  whom  one's 
own  modest  income  seems  a  veritable  fortune,  must  needs 
pay  twenty  per  cent  of  his  income  —  one  fifth!  —  to  a 
government  which  hardly  seems  to  offer  him  a  fair  equiva 
lent.  It  is  true  that  the  handsome  signore  does  not  tell  the 
truth  about  his  income,  but  one  must  not  blame  him  too 
severely.  Here  in  this  beautiful  Italy  each  man  who  works 
must  carry  on  his  back  another  man  who  only  eats.  It  is 
the  manner  of  the  state  militant. 

Robert  had  not  decided  upon  a  hotel.  He  meant  to 
leave  the  question  open.  It  was  early  in  the  day,  —  he 
would  be  guided  by  appearances. 

For  some  reason  best  known  to  himself,  the  cabman  left 
the  main  highway  at  Sant'  Agnello,  and  turned  down 
towards  the  sea.  Robert  wanted  to  stop  at  each  open  gate, 
and  explore  the  old  gardens  of  which  they  gave  such 

298 


COCUMELLA 


charming  glimpses.  He  passed  with  difficulty  the  tortuous, 
inviting  lane  that  leads  down  to  Marion  Crawford's  villa. 
It  was  in  this  mood  of  high  appreciation  that  Kobert  came 
upon  Cocumella.  It  was  a  few  minutes  past  twelve.  A 
bright  warm  sun  shone  upon  the  severe  facade  of  the 
Albergo,  upon  the  delightful  old  orange  orchard  to  the 
right,  upon  the  little  Jesuit  church  to  the  left,  upon  the 
palm  trees  in  the  stone  courtyard  in  front.  Towering  high 
above  the  garden,  several  stone  pines  spread  the  illu 
minated  velvet  green  of  their  heavy  tops  against  a  back 
ground  of  blue  sky.  Across  the  trees  and  waters  rose  the 
strong,  beautiful  outline  of  Vesuvius,  with  its  dazzling, 
sun-smitten  canopy  of  smoke.  It  was  still  almost  a  mile  to 
Sorrento,  to  the  Piazza,  but  Robert  knew  that  this  was  the 
spot  for  him.  Whatever  Sorrento  had  to  offer,  it  could  not 
surpass  in  loveliness  this  ancient,  garden-begirt  Albergo. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  Robert  persuaded  his 
incomprehensible  cabman  to  stop  and  deposit  himself  and 
his  luggage.  For  some  quite  unknown  reason,  the  man 
was  bent  upon  making  Sorrento.  Robert  declined  to  be 
carried  on,  however,  and  made  such  an  outcry  that  Vin- 
cenzo,  the  head  waiter,  heard  the  disturbance,  and  rushed 
out  to  take  part  in  it.  When  he  learned  that  the  gentle 
man  had  wished  to  stop  at  Cocumella,  and  had  almost 
been  prevented,  the  uproar  that  ensued  was  so  vigorous 
and  picturesque  that  by  comparison  Robert's  protest 
seemed  as  nothing.  He  quite  expected  to  see  broken  heads 
and  other  aftermath  of  violence,  but  the  storm  was  made 
up  wholly  of  words,  and  above  all  of  gesticulations.  Rob 
ert  became  fairly  fascinated  to  see  how  near  a  clenched 
fist  could  come  to  another  man's  face  without  actually 

299 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


striking  it.  By  this  time  all  the  other  cabmen  waiting  in 
front  of  the  Albergo  were  taking  part  in  the  uproar. 
Though  no  one  listened,  each  man  seemed  bent  on  ex 
pressing  his  own  opinion  fully  and  explicitly.  Finally, 
Robert  managed  to  get  out  of  the  cab  and  have  his 
luggage  transferred  to  the  hall. 

Vincenzo  was  once  more  the  smiling  host,  eager  to  show 
the  gentleman  every  unoccupied  room  in  the  Albergo,  so 
that  the  gentleman  might  be  fully  satisfied.  Robert  se 
lected  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  not  a  large  one,  but 
one  that  offered  a  cheery  fireplace  in  one  corner,  and  a 
groop  of  windows  looking  out  on  the  garden  and  the  Bay 
and  Vesuvius. 

It  was  already  time  for  luncheon.  After  a  hasty  fresh 
ening  up,  Robert  ran  downstairs  to  the  gayly  decorated 
dining-room  on  the  ground  floor.  Vincenzo  was  watching 
for  him,  and  steered  him  to  a  seat  near  the  lower  end  of 
the  long  table.  The  people  around  him  looked  up  and 
spoke  pleasantly.  Americans  and  Germans  predominated, 
but  it  seemed  to  Robert  that  nearly  every  known  country 
was  represented.  It  was  rather  a  noisy  table.  The  sun 
streamed  in  through  the  large  south  windows  and  seemed 
to  liberate  the  talk.  Robert  looked  in  vain  for  a  familiar 
face.  He  hardly  expected  to  find  Sappho  and  Miss  Froth- 
ingham,  for  he  did  not  know  how  early  in  March  they 
expected  to  reach  Sorrento,  or  at  what  hotel  they  planned 
to  stop.  There  were  several  small  tables  ranged  along  the 
sides  of  the  room.  Robert  fancied  that  had  the  ladies  been 
there,  they  would  have  chosen  one  of  the  small  tables.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  very  cosy  if  he  might 
occupy  the  third  place  in  such  a  little  group. 

300 


COCUMELLA 


After  luncheon,  Vincenzo  took  Robert  through  the  gar 
den,  and  begged  him  to  help  himself  to  the  oranges  and 
lemons.  He  also  explained,  as  a  fact  quite  worthy  of  atten 
tion,  that  the  only  reason  why  they  could  offer  so  much 
for  six  francs  a  day  —  the  gentleman  could  see  for  him 
self  after  such  a  luncheon  that  it  was  vastly  more  than 
any  one  else  gave  for  perhaps  twice  the  money  —  was  that 
the  Gargulio  family  owned  the  estates  themselves  and  did 
not  have  to  pay  any  rent,  and  the  saints  knew  that  they 
were  not  mean,  these  Gargulios.  They  wanted  every  one 
to  be  quite  satisfied,  and  did  the  gentleman  not  think  that 
to  give  people  a  lot  for  their  money  was  the  best  way  to 
bring  about  such  a  result  ?  It  was  regrettable,  but  some 
people  did  not  appreciate  it.  Some  did,  however,  and 
showed  their  appreciation  by  giving  liberally  to  holy 
church,  and  to  the  local  charities,  of  which  by  a  happy 
chance  Vincenzo  had  a  complete  list  in  his  pocket.  Per 
haps  the  gentleman  would  like  to  look  it  over.  The  Russian 
princess — the  gentleman  might  have  remarked  her  sitting 
at  the  small  table  in  the  dining-room,  —  yes,  the  one  to 
the  extreme  right  —  had  given  twenty  francs.  She  was 
almost  as  rich  as  an  American.  To  be  sure,  some  could  not 
afford  to  give  so  much  as  that.  They  gave  only  five  francs, 
or  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  sometimes  only  two  or  three. 
The  mean  ones  gave  only  one  franc,  but  happily  not  many 
such  came  to  Cocumella.  Robert  was  too  full  of  the 
garden  to  pay  much  attention  to  Vincenzo.  Rather  absent- 
mindedly,  Robert  handed  over  a  five-franc  piece,  and 
heard  profuse  thanks.  When  he  turned  around,  a  moment 
later,  Vincenzo  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Robert  had  never  before  had  the  freedom  of  an  orange 
301 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


orchard.  It  was  too  soon  after  the  abundant  luncheon  for 
him  to  want  any  of  the  fruit,  but  the  bare  fact  that  he  was 
at  liberty  to  help  himself  gave  him  an  absurd  amount  of 
pleasure.  It  seemed  to  make  the  garden  his  very  own.  He 
wandered  down  the  path  to  the  abrupt  cliff  overlooking 
the  bay.  At  the  very  edge  of  the  garden  he  could  peer 
over  and  see  the  tiny  gray  beach  below.  The  whole  out 
look  was  so  essentially  picturesque,  and  so  unlike  anything 
he  had  ever  seen  before,  that  his  interest  amounted  to  an 
excitement.  He  could  see  a  fisherman  drawing  up  his  boat 
up  the  sand,  and  further  along  a  couple  of  workmen,  an 
old  man  and  a  rosy  boy,  who  seemed  to  be  building  some 
thing,  perhaps  a  boat.  Kobert  was  all  aglow  to  join  them 
and  explore  this  curious  strip  of  beach  cut  off  at  both  ends 
by  bold,  projecting  headlands.  On  one  side  of  the  garden 
he  found  a  little  gate  that  opened  into  a  narrow  lane. 
This  in  turn  took  him  into  a  bizarre  path  that  made  its 
zigzag  way  down  the  sheer  face  of  the  cliff.  Sometimes  the 
path  was  an  uneven  slope,  sometimes  a  crude  stairway  cut 
in  the  lava,  and  worn  by  time  and  use  into  an  indefinite 
outline.  In  places  the  path  turned  directly  into  the  lava, 
and  wandered  through  fantastic  caverns  doubtless  exca 
vated  by  ancient  quarrymen,  but  now  suggestive  of  ban 
dits  and  smugglers.  At  other  places  the  path  emerged 
upon  tile-paved  balconies  that  offered  outlooks  of  such  rare 
beauty  that  it  seemed  a  sin  to  leave  them.  Kobert  was 
slow  in  making  the  descent,  for  at  every  turn  he  was  will 
ingly  detained.  At  last  he  came  out  upon  the  sands.  A 
rough  quay  built  of  uneven  blocks  of  lava,  and  protected 
by  a  tiny  breakwater,  offered  a  landing  for  small  boats. 
Just  now,  it  was  deserted,  for  the  Nixe  would  not  be  re- 

302 


COCUMELLA 


turning  from  Capri  for  several  hours  yet.  The  fisherman 
had  joined  the  boat-builders,  and  sat  watching  their  pro 
gress.  Their  workshop  was  a  rough  grotto  cut  out  of  the 
lava  and  opening  directly  upon  the  sands.  The  boat  was 
about  half  finished.  To  Robert,  it  represented  a  prodigious 
amount  of  labor.  Not  only  were  the  old  man  and  his  beau 
tiful  apprentice  shaping  everything  by  hand  with  the  sim 
plest  of  tools,  but  the  very  planks  had  evidently  been  cut 
by  hand  from  the  rough  logs  that  marked  the  entrance  to 
their  work-room  cave. 

The  cliff  itself  was  in  the  shadow,  a  dark  pinkish  brown, 
but  the  sun  reached  the  iron-gray  sands  of  the  beach,  and 
touched  the  tiny  breakers  into  dazzling  white.  It  was  as 
warm  as  summer,  and  to  Robert,  from  the  north,  it  hardly 
seemed  like  a  real  world.  To  be  so  near  Vesuvius,  and  to 
be  able  with  one's  spiritual  hand  to  reach  out  and  touch 
it,  and  to  pass  one's  fingers,  with  delight,  over  its  sweeping 
curves,  was  in  itself  an  experience  of  worth.  Here  on  this 
isolated  beach,  with  only  three  Italians,  and  these  wholly 
bent  upon  their  own  affairs,  Robert  felt  as  far  from  Paris 
as  he  did  from  Massachusetts.  The  loneliness  did  not  dis 
turb  him.  He  liked  to  be  so  completely  ignored.  It  had 
struck  him  throughout  Italy  as  quite  superb  the  way  the 
native  life  goes  on,  regardless  of  the  erratic  and  purposeless 
movements  of  the  swarming  forestieri.  He  would  have 
liked  to  have  speech  with  the  beautiful  apprentice,  but  per 
haps  it  was  better  as  it  was,  each  movement  full  of  uncon 
scious  grace  and  himself  as  unnoticed  as  a  passing  bird. 

Robert  wandered  to  the  end  of  the  little  beach,  to  the 
projecting  headland,  and  found  an  irregular  tunnel  leading 
into  its  very  heart.  He  followed  the  broken  line  of  the 

303 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


passageway  for  perhaps  a  hundred  feet,  and  came  out  upon 
a  tiny  beach  hardly  larger  than  a  bathroom.  The  rough 
lava  extended  like  a  wall  on  all  save  the  water  side,  and 
even  overhung  the  beach  in  lieu  of  a  ceiling.  The  side 
towards  the  bay  was  a  magnificent  picture-window,  in 
which  one  saw  blue  waters  and  the  sun-smitten  cloud  can 
opy  of  Vesuvius.  Back  of  the  tiny  beach  was  a  cavern-like 
cleft  that  offered  the  most  secure  of  dressing-rooms.  By 
way  of  a  door,  there  was  a  hundred  feet  of  shadow. 

Robert  slipped  out  of  his  clothes,  and  in  a  moment  was 
sporting  in  the  cold  blue  waters.  A  little  boat  darted  by, 
startlingly  near,  but  it  contained  only  a  couple  of  fisher 
men,  who  showed  their  white  teeth  as  they  smiled  and 
wished  Eobert  the  good  day  that  he  was  having.  Tingling 
with  renewed  life,  he  came  out  of  the  water  into  his  fan 
tastic  dressing-room,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  again  in 
his  clothes. 

Robert  wandered  back  through  the  little  tunnel  into  the 
broad  sunshine  of  the  beach.  He  stretched  himself  lazily 
on  the  sands.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  felt  so 
young.  Something  of  the  pagan  joy  of  living  went  racing 
through  his  veins.  Italy  and  the  south  had  got  into  his 
blood.  The  over-strenuous  life  in  Paris  somehow  seemed 
unnatural  and  remote.  It  was  more  sensible  to  be  lying 
there  on  the  sands,  doing  nothing  but  just  living.  There 
was  no  picture  in  all  the  Louvre  or  Luxembourg  so  beau 
tiful  as  the  luminous  one  that  stretched  out  before  him. 
If  he  wanted  landscape,  he  had  but  to  look  over  the  blue 
waters  to  Vesuvius ;  if  he  wanted  the  picturesque,  he  had 
the  warm  pink  cliffs ;  if  he  wanted  something  better  than 
portraiture,  he  had  only  to  watch  the  apprentice  boy. 

304 


COCUMELLA 


Towards  sunset,  Robert  aroused  himself,  and  slowly 
climbed  the  wandering  stairway  to  the  rim  of  the  garden, 
pausing  in  a  dozen  places  to  drink  in  that  marvelous 
beauty  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  when  the  sun  is  sinking 
towards  the  western  isles.  Robert  sat  down  on  the  old  bench 
that  stands  at  the  edge  of  the  garden.  He  sat  there  utterly 
content,  asking  nothing.  He  looked  out  over  the  waters  to 
measure  the  full  dimension  of  his  content.  It  seemed  as 
boundless  as  the  view.  Then  the  light  began  very  grad 
ually  to  fade,  and  more  ethereal  colors  played  over  the 
sea  and  sky.  They  brought  with  them  a  more  mystical  and 
haunting  beauty,  the  promise  of  something  that  sea  and 
sky  alone  did  not  quite  yield.  In  the  less  luminous  picture 
there  was  the  added  value  of  mystery.  Robert  was  keenly 
alive  to  the  change,  and  his  own  mood  at  once  responded. 
The  pagan  joy  of  life  was  not  less  intense  than  when  he 
had  emerged  all  glowing  from  the  cold  blue  waters.  He 
still  felt  the  thrill  of  quicker  blood.  It  was  good  to  be 
young  and  strong  and  free.  It  was  not  that  any  of  these 
satisfactions  had  grown  smaller.  But  they  no  longer  filled 
the  whole  of  life.  Around  them  like  an  enveloping,  unes- 
capable  atmosphere  was  the  sense  of  unexplored  regions 
that  promised  yet  greater  possibilities.  All  unconsciously, 
Robert  stretched  out  his  hands  in  supplication.  In  his  own 
soul  there  was  a  sense  of  this  deeper  necessity.  Then  there 
came  to  him,  as  there  had  once  or  twice  before  in  this  won 
derful  experience  called  Europe,  an  eclipse  of  his  smaller 
personal  self.  -For  a  moment  he  passed  into  the  super- 
conscious,  and  was  one  with  the  palpitating  color  oceans 
of  sea  and  sky.  He  was  realizing  what  was  needed  to  give 
the  pagan  joy  of  life  an  abiding  peace.  It  was  the  touch 

305 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


of  the  spirit.  Life  became  transfigured  as  it  had  been  in 
York  Minster,  and  Robert  felt  that  never  again  ought  he 
to  be  lonely  or  unhappy.  He  had  but  to  beckon  them,  and 
the  hosts  of  the  air  were  his  for  company.  He  had  but  to 
turn  his  face  upward,  and  he  was  in  the  presence  of  the 
divine.  A  greater  thrill  passed  over  him  than  had  been 
induced  by  the  cold  water.  In  his  cheeks  there  came  a 
heightened  color.  It  was  the  joy  of  the  mystic  coming  into 
his  own,  an  ecstasy  vague,  formless,  incoherent,  but  capable 
of  translation  into  high  performance. 

Below  Robert,  at  the  first  turn  of  the  path,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  with  a  couple  of  children,  stood  looking 
out  over  the  Bay.  They  spoke  to  Robert  pleasantly  and 
continued  their  scrutiny  of  the  waters.  At  first  Robert 
thought  that,  like  himself,  they  were  occupied  with  the 
sunset,  but  presently  they  turned  back  and  moved  briskly 
towards  the  Albergo.  They  were  members  of  the  Gargulio 
family,  and  had  evidently  seen  what  they  came  out 
to  see.  Robert  swept  the  waters  more  carefully.  The 
Nixe  was  moving  off  towards  Naples,  leaving  behind  her 
a  trail  of  silvery  light  upon  the  face  of  the  darkening 
waters.  She  was  late  that  evening.  Two  small  rowboats 
were  slowly  making  their  way  towards  Cocumella.  One 
of  the  boats  carried  two  passengers  and  the  other  three. 
Robert  watched  them  disembark  and  cross  the  sands  and 
climb  the  stairway.  He  felt  no  curiosity  about  them,  — 
they  were  simply  a  part  of  the  evening's  panorama.  The 
party  of  two  came  briskly  up  the  zigzag  path,  as  if  that 
were  the  sole  business  of  the  hour.  The  other  three  trav 
elers  came  slowly,  not  as  if  they  were  tired,  but  as  if  they 
wished  to  prolong  the  pleasure.  None  of  them  saw  Rob- 

306 


COCUMELLA 


ert.  He  was  sitting  in  the  shadow,  quite  motionless.  They 
passed  by,  dark,  indistinct  figures  that  might  have  been 
given  up  by  the  sea.  It  pleased  Robert's  fancy  that  they 
had  been  so  near  that  he  could  have  put  out  his  hand  and 
touched  them  as  they  passed,  and  yet  that  they  had  not 
seen  him.  It  was  a  symbol  of  the  mystery  of  life.  It 
spoke  of  forces  and  influences  unseen  and  unreal  so  long 
as  one  does  not  heed  them,  but  quick  with  life  the  mo 
ment  one  turns  the  head. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
OLD  ACQUAINTANCES  BECOME  NEW  FRIENDS 

THE  following  morning,  when  Robert  leisurely  took  ac 
count  of  his  surroundings,  he  had  the  feeling  that  he  was 
very  well  off.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  have  Sappho  and 
Mias  Frothingham  there ;  but  whether  they  came  or  not, 
his  sense  of  present  satisfaction  told  him  that  this  would 
be  his  home  until  well  into  April. 

The  Albergo  della  Cocumella  was  formerly  a  religious 
house,  a  summer  retreat  of  the  Neapolitan  Jesuits.  The 
breezes  of  a  score  or  more  of  years  have  robbed  it  of  all 
casuistry  and  left  only  an  atmosphere  of  peaceful  medita 
tion.  It  is  half  country-house  and  half  monastery.  After 
the  fashion  of  its  kind,  it  is  built  around  the  four  sides 
of  a  paved  court,  in  the  centre  of  which  is  an  old  well, 
rimmed  with  maiden-hair  and  other  fern.  Towards  the 
Bay  there  is  an  arched  doorway  showing  the  reddish  walls 
of  the  old  garden ;  and  in  the  very  centre  of  the  picture 
rises  the  great  trunk  of  a  stone  pine,  its  velvet  green  top 
standing  out  sharp  and  clear  against  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
For  nearly  half  the  quadrangle,  the  Albergo  is  only  one 
story,  a  design  which  leaves  free  outlook  for  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  other  portion  and  makes  possible  the  most 
delightful  of  roof-terraces.  Robert  found  the  terrace  near 
his  own  room  a  capital  lounging-place  these  warm,  sunny 
days  in  early  March.  He  never  grew  tired  of  looking 
across  the  tops  of  the  orange  trees  and  under  the  great 
cone-laden  pines  and  over  the  blue  waters  to  his  ever- 

308 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

smoking,  ever-fascinating  neighbor,  Vesuvius.  When  no 
storm  cloud  hid  the  summit,  the  familiar  column  of  white 
smoke  lost  itself  in  great  white  masses  that  might  well 
have  served  Michelangelo  as  model  for  the  resting-place 
of  those  heavenly  hosts  that  Ezekiel  saw.  In  spite  of  this 
familiarity,  the  great  smoke  cloud  never  lacked  variety. 
On  still  days  the  columns  rose  straight  and  high,  and 
spread  out  into  a  canopy  like  a  marble  support  to  the 
vault  of  the  sky.  But  usually  the  air  was  stirring,  and  then 
the  smoke  streamer  served  as  a  huge  weather-vane,  even 
as  a  barometer,  since  in  so  exposed  a  locality  as  the  Sor 
rento  peninsula,  the  direction  of  the  wind  largely  deter 
mines  the  character  of  the  weather.  But  perhaps  the 
greatest  charm  of  Vesuvius  to  Robert  was  the  sense  of 
expectation  which  it  aroused.  It  seemed  to  fulfill  Don 
ald's  demand  for  the  unexpected,  and  to  do  it  in  giant 
measure.  Recently  there  had  been  hoarse  rumblings  and 
other  show  of  activity.  Sometimes,  of  a  dark  night,  there 
could  be  seen  a  bright-red  beacon  light  on  the  very  sum 
mit,  a  little  notice  that  the  heart  of  the  world  is  still  on 
fire. 

But  it  was  late  at  night  that  Robert  loved  his  roof- 
terrace  the  best.  Then  the  Albergo  was  dark  and  silent, 
and  the  whole  Piano  asleep.  Usually  there  was  no  wind 
at  that  hour,  and  to  the  darkness  and  the  silence  was 
added  the  impressiveness  of  entire  repose.  When  the 
moon  was  traveling  elsewhere,  the  night  rested  like  a 
mantle  over  the  sleeping  plain,  and  the  stars,  like  faithful 
sentinels,  shone  out  through  the  clear  and  darkly  lumin 
ous  air.  Across  the  water  were  the  lights  of  the  ever-alert 
Naples,  and  further  to  the  left  the  blinking  eye  of  the 

309 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


revolving  light  on  Capo  Miseno.  To  the  south  and  east 
and  west  rose  the  mountain  walls  of  the  Piano,  first  the 
rugged  and  grandiose  heights  which  keep  company  with 
the  forbidding  Monte  Sant'  Angelo,  then  the  one  isolated 
peak  of  Monte  di  Chiosse  and  the  low  saddle  over  which 
passes  the  road  to  Amalfi,  and  then  finally  the  gentler 
earth  curves  passing  into  the  long,  slow-descending  hill 
line  on  the  west.  Nearer  at  hand  were  the  silent,  tomb- 
like  walls  of  the  white  villas,  half  visible  even  in  the 
darkness;  and  then,  just  over  the  terrace,  the  mysterious 
shadows  of  the  old  garden. 

At  such  a  time  as  this,  one  comes  into  touch  with  the 
larger  and  more  spiritual  side  of  Nature.  In  Robert's 
responsive  heart,  thoughts  bestirred  themselves  which 
made  him  for  the  moment  a  brother  of  the  subjective, 
contemplative  East.  It  was  no  longer  the  twentieth  cen 
tury.  Its  too  rapid  pulse-beat  was  at  a  halt.  Robert  lived 
in  a  limitless  universe,  in  which  the  past  and  present  and 
future  were  all  as  one,  brought  into  community  in  the 
infinite  recesses  of  the  human  soul. 

When  the  moon  comes  back  from  the  western  seas,  and 
floods  all  this  loveliness  with  her  silver  light,  the  beauty 
is  less  formless,  and  yet  in  that  half  light  which  suggests, 
but  does  not  reveal,  there  is  almost  as  much  mystery 
as  in  the  darkness.  But  there  is  greater  hint  of  human 
hearts.  The  balconies  and  loggie  of  the  neighboring  villas 
were  meant  for  friendly  occupancy.  The  two  towers, 
within  a  stone's  throw,  —  if  one  is  a  good  thrower,  — 
mark  the  home  of  Marion  Crawford,  and  are  the  very 
finger-posts  of  romance.  In  the  other  direction  stood  the 
home  of  Tasso.  Now  it  has  fallen  into  the  sea,  but  the  marble 

310 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FKIENDS 

statue  in  the  Piazza  bears  witness  to  Sorrento's  pride  in 
the  most  gifted  of  her  children. 

Inside,  the  Albergo  is  spacious  and  serene,  its  vaulted 
ceilings  and  thick  walls  outlasting  several  generations  of 
our  own  more  perishable  clay.  The  centre  of  its  social 
life  was  the  long,  well-lighted  corridor  that  stretches  along 
one  side  of  the  inner  courtyard  and  leads  from  the  stair 
case  to  the  gayly  decorated  dining-room.  But  Robert  was 
not  often  indoors.  If  he  was  not  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  Albergo, — on  the  roof -terrace,  in  the  garden,  or 
down  on  the  beach  —  he  was  pretty  apt  to  be  wandering 
about  in  the  lanes  of  Sant'  Agnello,  or  prowling  among 
the  shops  of  Sorrento,  or  climbing  the  hillsides  back  of 
the  Piano.  His  life  was  not  so  systematic  as  it  had  been 
in  Paris.  He  was  not  so  alert,  so  eager,  not  so  consciously 
hunting  for  personal  reactions.  Yet  many  things  were 
coming  to  him,  delicate  impressions  and  subtle  insights 
that  are  frightened  away  by  too  eager  pursuit,  and  only 
enter  the  soul  when  it  stands  open  and  waits.  Robert 
got  up  each  morning  without  settled  plan.  He  went  to 
bed  each  night  feeling  that  the  day  had  brought  its  re 
wards.  The  nearest  approach  to  systematic  work  that  he 
ventured  upon  was  a  few  lessons  in  Italian.  But  these 
he  took  not  from  any  academic  motive,  but  solely  that  he 
might  talk  the  more  readily  with  the  children  and  the 
peasants.  He  had  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  youthful 
Apollo  who  built  boats  on  the  Cocumella  beach,  and  had 
even  loaned  an  occasional  hand  to  some  of  the  simple 
boat-building  operations.  The  Italian  lessons  were  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  French  lessons  given  by  Pauline, 
or  even  to  those  of  the  over-fluent  Madame  Sylvestre. 

311 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Robert's  teacher  was  a  handsome  young  priest  from  the 
Cathedral  Church  at  Sorrento.  Robert  promptly  named 
him  "  St.  Augustine,"  for  he  was  the  very  image  of  the 
Saint  as  he  appears  in  that  picture  of  St.  Augustine  and 
Santa  Monica  that  Robert  had  seen  and  liked  in  London, 
the  picture  by  Ary  Shaffer  in  the  National  Gallery.  St. 
Augustine  wanted  very  much  to  know  English,  and  so 
the  lesson  became  practically  an  hour  of  linguistic  good- 
fellowship.  His  speech  was  singularly  direct.  After  some 
small  success  on  Robert's  part,  St.  Augustine  would  look 
at  him  impressively  and  say  quite  as  impersonally  as  if 
Robert  were  a  beetle  mounted  on  a  pin,  "I perceive  that 
you  are  intelligent ! " 

But  woe  be  to  poor  Robert  if  he  became  uplifted  ac 
cordingly  and  neglected  his  verbs.  St.  Augustine  would 
lift  his  slender  forefinger  to  the  side  of  his  sensitive 
aquiline  nose  and  remark  with  quite  as  little  compunction, 
"I  perceive  that  you  have  a  short  memory!"  However, 
they  got  on  well  together.  St.  Augustine  cared  little  for 
the  modest  fee,  and  Robert  took  his  praise  or  blame  with 
equal  serenity.  What  each  one  wanted  was  to  learn  the 
other's  language  and  to  impart  a  little  of  his  own.  And  if 
St.  Augustine  outstripped  him,  Robert  took  it  all  in  good 
part,  for  it  is  the  manner  of  the  saints. 

Robert  had  been  at  Cocumella  just  two  weeks.  He  had 
had  no  news  of  Sappho  and  Miss  Frothingham.  He  took 
the  precaution  of  dropping  in  from  time  to  time  at  the 
larger  hotels,  the  Tramontana,  the  Vittoria,  the  Grande 
Bretagne,  and  even  sometimes  at  the  smaller  ones,  to  see 
if  he  could  find  their  names  on  the  registers,  but  so  far 
without  success.  He  was  too  happily  occupied  to  feel  any 

312 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

unrest  at  their  non-appearance,  but  it  would  have  been 
pleasant  to  have  had  some  one  to  whom  he  could  relate 
his  small  adventures  and  be  sure  of  a  sympathetic  hear 
ing.  He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  going  late  each  after 
noon  to  the  old  bench  on  the  rim  of  the  garden.  He 
watched  the  sunset,  and  incidentally  scanned  the  faces  of 
those  who  came  from  Capri  to  Cocumella.  The  Nixe  was 
more  prompt  than  formerly,  and  the  days  themselves  were 
increasing  in  length.  Eobert  could  no  longer  sit  motion 
less  in  the  shadow  and  be  unobserved.  On  this  particular 
evening  a  number  of  travelers  came  bobbing  over  the 
waters  in  the  little  rowboats  and  landed  at  the  rough 
quay.  Once  on  the  sands,  they  separated  into  groups 
and  came  wandering  up  the  zigzag  path  in  the  usual 
characteristic  way, — some  as  if  getting  to  the  top  were 
the  sole  question;  others  as  if  the  climb  were  an  imposi 
tion  for  which  the  proprietor  was  later  to  be  held  account 
able  ;  a  few  leisurely  and  with  evident  pleasure  in  the 
novelty  and  the  beauty.  Robert  did  not  have  Sappho  and 
Miss  Frothingham  especially  in  mind,  —  he  had  seen  so 
many  travelers  arrive,  and  they  had  not  been  of  the  num 
ber.  As  the  mixed  company  trailed  past  him,  however, 
he  noticed  far  down  the  path  a  couple  of  ladies  whose 
progress  had  been  quite  the  slowest  of  all.  They  moved, 
not  as  if  they  were  weary,  or  even  rebellious  at  the  long 
climb,  but  rather  as  if  they  were  prolonging  it  out  of 
mere  pleasure.  They  stopped  at  the  different  turns  in  the 
path,  and  were  evidently  chatting  about  the  outlook.  The 
murmur  of  their  voices  came  up  to  where  Robert  sat.  As 
they  drew  nearer,  he  caught  a  familiar  note.  It  was  the 
musical,  high-pitched  voice  that  he  so  well  remembered. 

313 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


Though  he  was  so  far  above  the  ladies,  the  voice  seemed 
to  be  with  him  rather  than  with  them,  to  herald  their 
approach  rather  than  to  come  with  them.  As  the  ladies 
climbed  higher,  Kobert  could  recognize  their  dress  as  well 
as  their  voices.  Mrs.  Costello  still  wore  her  marvelous 
habit  of  silver  gray,  and  Miss  Frothingham  had  on  the 
traveling  gown  that  she  had  used  at  Oxford.  At  the  last 
turn  the  ladies  sat  down  for  several  minutes,  and  Robert 
could  easily  have  overheard  their  talk.  He  closed  both 
ears,  and  sat  a  moment  watching  them.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  distinct  pleasure.  They  were  only  acquaintances,  but 
they  might  become  friends.  It  was  already  too  late  to  see 
very  distinctly,  but  Robert  could  detect  the  rare  quality 
in  both  faces,  —  the  calm  and  dignity  in  Sappho's,  the 
delightful  mobility  in  Miss  Frothingham's. 

Robert  did  not  speak.  Some  months  before,  he  would 
have  called  out  to  them  in  boyish  pleasure.  But  now  he 
felt  that  it  would  be  an  intrusion.  Finally  he  decided  not 
to  speak  to  them  until  they  came  down  to  dinner.  He 
softly  left  his  bench  and  ran  through  the  garden  to  the 
Albergo.  He  stopped  a  moment  to  see  Vincenzo  and  be 
speak  for  the  two  ladies  his  very  best  available  rooms. 
But  it  seems  that  they  had  already  written  ahead  and  the 
rooms  were  waiting  for  them.  Robert  turned  back  once 
more  to  ask  if  they  might  not  sit  together,  the  three  of 
them,  at  one  of  the  little  side-tables.  Vincenzo  readily 
promised,  and  Robert  ran  upstairs  to  dress. 

In  a  few  moments  Robert  was  down  in  the  corridor  again, 
but  the  two  ladies  had  not  appeared.  He  sat  down  at  the 
far  end  of  the  corridor,  where  he  could  see  the  staircase, 
and  advance  leisurely  to  meet  the  ladies  when  they  did 

314 


OLD   ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

appear.  He  was  amused  at  this  little  provision  for  scenic 
effects,  and  told  himself  that  he  was  growing  very  worldly. 
But  the  charge  no  longer  brought  any  self-reproach.  If 
houses  and  gardens  were  planned  for  vistas  and  scenic 
effects,  why  not  human  behaviour  ?  The  only  thing  was  to 
keep  things  in  due  proportion,  and  to  see  that  the  human 
drama  was  always  worthy  of  its  elaborate  setting.  Robert 
was  growing  artificial.  He  had  started  out  very  simple,  and 
he  had  meant  to  keep  simple,  but  of  late  it  had  been  dawn 
ing  upon  him  that  simple  people  are  not  interesting.  He 
was  beginning  to  take  Donald's  view  of  the  matter.  He 
had  once  repudiated  it  vigorously,  but  he  was  beginning 
to  see  that  the  people  who  are  continuously  interesting 
are  not  the  people  that  one  can  exploit  at  a  sitting, 
but  are  rather  those  highly  evolved  products,  very  com 
plex,  very  artificial  if  you  will,  who  present  inexhaustible 
possibilities  in  the  way  of  speech  and  action,  but  who  are 
nevertheless  just  as  wholesome  and  natural  in  their  arti 
ficiality  as  the  peasant  is  in  his  simplicity.  It  was  a  new 
point  of  view  for  Robert,  and  he  had  not  yet  worked  it  out 
to  his  own  satisfaction.  The  part  of  the  problem  that  most 
puzzled  him  was  to  determine  which  part  of  life  ought  to 
be  kept  simple  and  which  part  allowed  to  grow  complex. 
He  was  now  quite  sure,  and  never  more  so  than  as  he  sat 
there  waiting  for  Sappho  and  Miss  Frothingham,  that  to 
have  life  all  simple  was  to  have  it  all  dull,  and  he  had  got 
beyond  the  point  where  he  could  willingly  tolerate  that. 
But  some  instinct  told  him  that  there  was  an  unescapable 
element  in  life  that  to  be  kept  sound  must  be  kept  sim 
ple.  Just  what  it  was,  he  could  not  quite  make  out.  It 
did  not  bother  him,  though,  for  he  felt  that  sooner  or  later 

315 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


he  would  find  out,  was  probably  finding  out  all  along,  and 
that  in  the  end  he  would  be  able  to  weave  the  fabric  of  his 
own  life  accordingly.  So  far,  he  liked  the  Italians  better 
than  any  people  he  had  ever  known.  He  loved  the  chil 
dren  he  met  and  talked  with  on  his  walks,  the  old  men 
working  in  the  fields,  the  boat-building  Apollo,  the  out 
spoken  St.  Augustine.  When  he  compared  them  with  the 
English  peasants,  or  even  with  the  country  people  in  New 
England,  with  those  thrifty  farmers  in  Vermont  where  he 
had  spent  several  vacations,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  one 
group  was  steeped  in  interest  and  the  other  in  dullness. 
What  made  the  difference,  —  was  it  climate,  or  heredity, 
or  religion,  or  education  ?  These  humble  Italians  that  Rob 
ert  had  come  to  know  were  simple  enough,  in  some  things 
primally  simple,  but  along  with  this  beautiful  simplicity 
they  had  subtleties  and  insights  that  made  Robert  himself 
feel  like  a  bungler.  They  were  not  merely  simple  like  his 
Vermont  summer  friends.  They  had  an  added  touch  of 
something  that  made  them  perennially  interesting,  and  al 
ways  lovable.  Even  Vincenzo,  whose  subtleties  cost  Robert 
an  occasional  five-franc  piece,  seemed  to  him  more  worth 
while  than  any  servant  he  had  seen  in  colder  zones.  It 
was  a  greater  pleasure  to  give  Vincenzo  five  francs  than  it 
was  to  give  an  English  monotone  a  shilling,  from  which 
it  will  be  seen  that  Robert  had  not  yet  reached  the  social 
stage  where  tipping  ceases  to  be  regarded  as  a  necessity, 
and  takes  its  place  among  the  recognized  pleasures  of  life. 
The  ladies  were  very  slow  in  coming.  But  Robert  was 
not  impatient.  He  had  plenty  to  think  about.  It  rather 
heightened  his  pleasure  to  sit  there  and  wait  for  them. 
It  was  like  saving  the  best  letter  in  one's  daily  mail  until 

316 


OLD   ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

the  very  last.  Now  that  he  had  grown  analytical,  —  and 
to-night  Robert  was  looking  at  the  world  almost  as  Donald 
might  have  looked  at  it,  —  Robert  realized  that  his  lively 
anticipation  of  pleasure  in  meeting  Mrs.  Costello  and  Miss 
Frothingham  rested  upon  no  intimate  feeling  of  friendship, 
for  as  yet  he  could  not  claim  either  of  them  as  friends, 
but  solely  because  they  were  both  very  highly  evolved  and 
very  interesting  human  products.  Mrs.  Costello  was  far 
from  simple.  She  was  marvelously  complex,  marvelously 
artificial ;  and  Miss  Frothingham  was  less  so  only  because 
she  was  younger.  But  in  both  women,  this  elaborate  cul 
ture  had  preserved  and  even  heightened  an  underlying 
simplicity  that  kept  it  sound  to  the  very  core.  Robert 
knew  that  he  might  spend  the  whole  evening  with  them, 
and  to-morrow  find  them  just  as  fresh  and  unexplored 
as  ever.  The  thought  gave  him  much  the  same  sort  of 
satisfaction  that  one  might  feel  in  beginning  a  book  in 
many  volumes,  if  at  the  same  time  the  book  were  inter 
esting. 

But  at  last  they  came.  Robert  could  hear  their  voices 
and  the  rustle  of  their  gowns.  When  they  reached  the  land 
ing  and  turned  to  descend  the  last  half -flight  into  the  long 
corridor,  they  came  into  full  view.  Both  women  were  in 
evening  dress.  As  the  night  was  somewhat  warm,  Alicia 
was  all  in  white.  Her  embroidered  muslin  gown  made  her 
look  more  slender  and  more  girl-like  than  Robert  remem 
bered  her  to  have  looked  either  on  the  steamer  or  in  Eng 
land.  Her  heavy  coils  of  hair  took  on  a  deeper  gold  from 
the  absence  of  color  in  her  gown.  As  she  spoke  to  Mrs. 
Costello  she  turned  her  face  brightly  towards  her,  as  if  to 
give  her  for  the  moment  quite  all  of  herself.  Could  Stephen 

317 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


have  seen  her,  he  would  have  admitted  that  it  was  no  trick, 
but  a  habit,  and  much  too  pretty  to  be  given  over.  Robert 
watched  the  two  ladies  with  lively  pleasure.  They  seemed 
to  him  in  their  way  quite  as  rare  as  the  best  art  treasures 
of  Italy,  and  they  had  the  added  value  of  being  alive. 

Robert  waited  until  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase.  Then  he  rose  quietly  and  went  forward  to  meet 
them.  He  meant  to  move  as  slowly  as  they  did,  and  to 
shake  hands  with  them  exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  corri 
dor.  This  was  the  way  he  had  visualized  their  meeting. 

Alicia  was  the  first  to  see  him.  "  Why,  there  is  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter!"  she  cried,  in  a  pleased  voice,  and  involuntarily 
hastened  forward.  "  How  nice  to  see  you  again.  Where 
did  you  come  from  ?  " 

Robert's  measured  programme  must  have  fallen  through, 
for  when  he  shook  hands  with  the  ladies,  it  was  well  over 
on  their  side  of  the  corridor. 

Mrs.  Costello  greeted  Robert  with  equal  cordiality.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  both  women  were  glad  to  be  meet 
ing  him  again.  They  stood  and  chatted  for  a  few  moments 
in  the  deserted  corridor,  for  the  most  part  asking  and 
answering  the  unimportant  questions  which  travelers  com 
monly  exchange.  Robert  meant  not  to  be  interrogative, 
but  as  we  all  know,  a  question,  be  it  trivial,  impertinent, 
or  momentous,  is,  next  to  the  weather,  quite  the  easiest 
banality  of  conversation.  Robert  was  conscious  that  he 
was  making  mistakes,  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  a 
little  embarrassed.  For  a  time  he  was  the  country  boy 
again.  It  may  have  been  a  salutary  set-back,  for  it  must 
be  confessed  that  as  he  sat  waiting  for  the  ladies  to  come 
down,  he  had  felt  dangerously  well  satisfied  with  himself. 

318 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FKIENDS 

In  a  moment,  however,  he  had  himself  in  hand  again,  and 
was  chatting  with  the  easier  tone  of  his  later  and  more 
experienced  self.  He  suggested  that  they  should  be  having 
dinner.  When  he  mentioned  his  arrangement  about  the 
small  side-table,  and  asked  if  he  had  taken  too  great  a 
liberty,  the  ladies  both  expressed  their  pleasure  at  the  plan, 
and  added  kindly  that  it  made  them  feel  quite  at  home  to 
be  looked  after  so  admirably.  Robert  felt  the  utter  fatuity 
of  his  rejoinder,  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  help 
protesting  that  the  one  person  he  had  looked  after  ad 
mirably  was  himself.  Then  he  told  them  quite  naively  that 
the  first  day  he  had  come  to  Cocumella  he  had  thought 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  be  sitting  there  just  as  they 
were,  but  that  he  had  had  little  expectation  of  having  his 
wish  come  true. 

"  That 's  a  good  way  to  frighten  off  good  fortune,  —  if 
you  call  our  coming  good  fortune,"  said  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  Whatever  you  want,  you  must  expect.  That  hurries  it 
along." 

"It  does  with  you,  dear  Mrs.  Costello,"  suggested  Alicia. 
"But  I  think  it 's  because  you  always  want  what 's  coming, 
and  so  get  ahead  of  fate,  every  time." 

Mrs.  Costello  laughed  and  turned  to  Robert.  "  You  see 
how  easily  Miss  Frothingham  pricks  my  philosophy.  But, 
believe  me,  it  does  n't  all  evaporate.  If  your  friends  were 
only  here,  the  young  lawyer  and  the  poet,  it  would  seem 
quite  like  York  or  Oxford." 

"But  so  much  nicer !  "  said  Robert. 

"  Ah,  you  love  Italy,  I  see.  I  am  so  glad.  And  how  do 
you  find  my  dear  Italians,  —  as  delightful  as  Miss  Froth 
ingham  and  I  do  ?  " 

319 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  I  have  quite  lost  my  heart  to  them,  —  men,  women, 
children,  and  babies  ! " 

"You  and  Mrs.  Costello  will  get  on  famously,"  said 
Alicia,  "and  especially  if  you  can  tell  her  why  you  find 
them  so  delightful." 

"  I  could  never  do  that.  I  don't  know,  myself.  First  I 
thought  it  was  because  they  were  so  simple  ;  then  I  thought 
it  was  because  they  were  so  complex.  One  moment  I  like 
them  because  they  are  so  indifferent  to  the  forestieri, 
and  the  next  moment  because  they  are  so  intimate  and 
friendly." 

"  Delicious,"  said  Mrs.  Costello.  "  You  are  going  through 
the  same  puzzle  that  we  all  do." 

"  Have  you  solved  it  ?  " 

"  Not  wholly,  —  perhaps  not  at  all.  I  think  they  're  all 
you  say,  and  a  lot  more." 

"  Just  a  bundle  of  contradictions,"  said  Robert. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  that,"  protested  Mrs.  Costello.  "  I 
think  their  charm  is  that  they  have  so  many  sides  to  their 
nature.  It  is  quite  inexhaustible.  You  may  know  an  Ital 
ian  all  your  life,  and  at  the  end  he  will  do  something  to 
surprise  you." 

"  Something  pleasant  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  It  may  be.  But  it 's  not  necessarily  pleasant  or  un 
pleasant.  The  thing  is  that  it 's  unexpected." 

"  They  're  a  puzzle,  all  right,  from  the  babies  up  to  old 
Vincenzo.  It  seems  impossible,  though,  does  n't  it  ?  that 
people  can  be  such  opposites,  —  simple,  complex,  —  indif 
ferent,  sympathetic." 

"  I  think  that  is  the  easiest  part  of  the  puzzle,"  sug 
gested  Alicia.  "  If  you  notice,  they  are  simple,  consistently 

320 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

simple,  along  certain  lines,  and  in  other  ways  just  as  per 
sistently  complex." 

"  One  can  hardly  call  it  consistent,  though,  to  be  sym 
pathetic  one  moment  and  quite  indifferent  the  next," 
said  Robert. 

"  But  are  they  ?  "  questioned  Mrs.  Costello.  "  I  should 
say  that  they  are  sympathetic  all  the  time,  but  circum 
stances  vary.  They  are  as  intuitional  as  animals.  You 
know  a  well-bred  dog  is  quite  indifferent  to  people  who 
don't  care  for  dogs,  and  yet  will  jump  all  over  those 
who  do." 

"What  interests  me,"  said  Alicia,  "is  that  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter  should  care  so  tremendously  for  the  Italians.  It 
seems  to  me  more  inconsistent  than  anything  the  Italians 
themselves  have  ever  done  or  ever  will  do." 

Both  Mrs.  Costello  and  Robert  kughed.  "  Why?  "  he 
asked ;  "  because  I  'm  a  New  Englander  and,  to  be  consist 
ent,  ought  to  disapprove  of  gayety  and  mirth?  " 

"  Only  partly  that,"  answered  Alicia.  "  I  have  just 
guessed  something." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  It  is  that  you  are  not  wholly  a  New  Englander." 

"  A  clever  guess  !  No,  I  'm  not.  I  'm  coming  to  think 
that  perhaps  I  'm  not  even  half  a  one.  My  mother  was 
from  South  Carolina." 

"  Ah,  that  explains  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Costello, 
with  interest.  "  Sons,  as  a  rule,  take  after  their  mothers. 
Has  it  been  some  years  since  your  mother  left  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  even  remember  her.  She  died  when 
I  was  a  very  small  boy,  and  I  never  knew  any  of  her 
family.  My  father  died  soon  after.  I  was  brought  up  by 

321 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


his  sister,  you  know,  my  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter.  For 
her  there  was  only  one  family,  the  Pendexters,  and  one 
section  of  the  country,  New  England.  So  you  see  it  was 
drilled  into  me  that  I  was  a  New  Englander,  and  a  Pen- 
dexter,  and  nothing  else.  Italy  is  helping  me  to  find  my 
mother." 

"  How  beautiful !  "  said  Mrs.  Costello,  almost  in  a  whis 
per.  "My  husband,  you  know,  was  an  Italian.  And 
through  him  Italy  spoke  to  me  of  so  many  things,  touched 
me  into  such  new  life.  We  must  be  good  friends,  Mr. 
Pendexter,  for  in  a  way  we  are  the  children  of  the  same 
mother ! " 

"  I  have  the  feeling  that  we  shall  be  the  best  of  friends, 
and  it  pleases  me  to  feel  that.  I  have  never  had  many 
friends,  you  know.  But  Miss  Frothingham  said  *  partly.' 
I  want  to  know  the  other  half  of  her  reason  for  thinking 
me  guilty  of  such  a  terrible  thing  as  inconsistency." 
Robert  spoke  lightly,  but  he  felt  a  genuine  interest  in 
her  answer. 

"  '  Partly '  is  n't  always  a  half,"  Alicia  replied.  "  In 
this  case  it  was  only  a  quarter.  The  other  three  quarters 
of  my  reason  was  that  I  thought  you  adored  simplicity." 

"  I  used  to,  but  I  don't  any  more.  Do  you  ?  " 

"  I  might  say  the  same  thing,"  answered  Alicia.  "  I 
used  to,  but  I  've  been  converted." 

"  I  suppose  you  met  a  lot  of  simple  people,  and  had  to 
spend  some  time  with  them."  Alicia  nodded.  "So  did 
I.  That 's  just  what  happened  to  me ! "  and  Robert  laughed 
merrily. 

"  Alicia,  you  are  really  very  wicked  to-night ! "  said  Mrs. 
Costello. 

322 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

"  No,  I  'm  not,  dear  Mrs.  Costello.  The  same  thing 
happened  to  you,  only  it  was  in  your  last  incarnation !  " 

Mrs.  Costello  smiled  and,  turning  to  Robert,  inquired 
after  his  winter.  Both  ladies  showed  a  genuine  interest  in 
so  much  of  his  doings  as  he  chose  to  tell  them.  When  Rob 
ert  finished,  Mrs.  Costello  said  to  her  friend,  "  I  think, 
Alicia,  that  we  perhaps  ought  to  tell  Mr.  Pendexter  what 
brings  us  to  Cocumella." 

Robert  turned  towards  Mrs.  Costello  with  an  air  of 
attention  that  seemed  to  invite  any  confidence  she  felt  it 
wise  to  bestow,  but  he  did  not  put  any  question. 

"  We  have  a  very  dear  friend  in  India,  Mr.  Pendexter, 
a  most  gifted  woman,  who  has  just  written  a  book  that 
her  Indian  friends  regard  as  quite  remarkable.  She  has 
done  us  the  great  honor  to  send  the  manuscript  to  us,  and 
to  ask  us  to  edit  it.  It  will  take  at  least  a  month.  Miss 
Frothingham  and  I  are  so  deeply  interested  in  the  work 
that  we  are  putting  everything  else  aside.  I  am  afraid  we 
shall  hardly  be  fit  companions  until  it  is  all  off  our  hands. 
We  have  chosen  Cocumella  because  it's  so  delightfully 
quiet  here.  You  see  we  are  undertaking  what  our  Catholic 
friends  call  a  retreat." 

u  Then  you  will  hardly  want  to  know  any  one  at  Co 
cumella,"  said  Robert,  —  "not  even  St.  Augustine  or 
Apollo !" 

"  What  a  droll  combination,"  laughed  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  One  does  n't  think  of  them  as  being  much  together.  Did 
you  meet  them  in  the  Museum,  or  in  the  Piazza  ?  " 

"  Neither.  Vincenzo  got  me  St.  Augustine.  He  is  a 
young  priest  who  gives  me  Italian  lessons.  I  found  Apollo 
myself.  He  is  the  carpenter's  boy  who  builds  boats  down 

323 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


on  our  little  beach.    You  must  take  time  to  know  both. 
They  're  really  great  fun." 

"Perhaps  later,  but  not  now,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello.  "  We  must  really  think  of  nothing  but  the  book." 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  me  go  away?"  asked  Robert, 
very  genuinely. 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Costello,  smiling ;  "  that 
would  be  a  misfortune,  to  have  found  you  and  then  to 
have  lost  you  at  once.  I  thought  we  might  have  the  plea 
sure  of  taking  our  meals  together,  or  at  least  luncheon 
and  dinner,  —  Miss  Frothingham  and  I  shall  be  having 
the  breakfast-trays  brought  to  our  rooms,  —  and  that  per 
haps  you  would  be  good  enough  to  let  us  share  your 
walks  occasionally,  when  we  have  need  of  exercise." 

Robert  hastened  to  assure  her  that  nothing  would  give 
him  more  pleasure. 

"  I  was  telling  you  this,"  continued  Mrs.  Costello,  "  so 
that  you  might  not  be  sorry  that  we  had  come,  or  feel  that 
we  are  going  to  intrude  in  any  way  on  your  own  daily 
work.  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  worker,  and  I  always  feel 
that  I  want  to  protect  them.  And  perhaps  now  you'll 
tell  us  about  your  plans,  and  what  brought  you  to  Cocu- 
mella." 

"  I  came  to  get  warm,"  said  Robert.  "  I  was  just  a 
coward  flying  before  the  cold.  And  I  stay  on  because  I 
love  it  so  much.  I  'm  really  not  working,  I  'm  just  drifting. 
I  just  have  a  good  time  from  morning  till  night.  You  see 
the  Southerner  in  me  is  coming  out !  " 

"  But  one  can't  have  a  good  time  without  doing  some 
thing,"  urged  Mrs.  Costello.  "  I  shall  suspect  that  you  are 
writing  a  novel." 

324 


OLD   ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FRIENDS 

"  I  wish  I  were,  but  I  have  n't  wit  enough.  I  occupy 
myself,  of  course.  I  walk  and  read  and  study  a  little  Ital 
ian.  Sometimes  I  sketch  a  little  bit,  and  then  I  never  get 
tired  just  prowling  about  in  the  shops  and  lanes  and  down 
on  the  beach.  I  'm  almost  a  busy  person,  indeed,  for  the 
time  never  seems  long  enough  to  get  in  all  I  want.  But  all 
these  little  doings  put  together  hardly  deserve  to  be  called 
a  plan." 

"It  depends,  does  it  not,  upon  the  way  you  handle 
them  ? "  suggested  Alicia.  "  Walking,  for  example,  the 
Master  used  to  say,  is  a  very  spiritual  exercise,  if  one  medi 
tates  as  one  walks.  And  reading  surely  is  a  solid  enough 
work,  if  one  also  thinks.  What  shall  we  say  about  the 
sketching,  Wise  One  ?  "  Alicia  turned  very  prettily  to  her 
older  friend,  and  Robert  was  struck  anew  with  the  beauty 
of  the  relation  between  them. 

"  Something  equally  brave,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello.  "  My  husband  used  to  say  that  it  was  a  divine  thing 
to  draw  or  paint,  if  one  only  saw.  He  believed  that  we 
have  so  few  artists,  not  because  our  hands  are  naturally 
clumsy  or  the  technique  of  art  difficult,  but  wholly  because 
our  souls  are  undeveloped,  and  we  do  not  see.  He  had 
very  little  training  himself,  you  remember.  His  father  did 
not  want  him  to  be  an  artist,  and  made  it  cruelly  hard  for 
him.  But  Leon  Costello  saw,  and  so  he  was  an  artist.  He 
got  the  training  afterwards,  but  he  was  the  artist  first. 
Later,  he  used  to  say  to  his  own  pupils,  '  My  children,  if 
you  want  to  paint,  —  paint ! '  It  was  quite  touching,  I  do 
assure  you,  to  see  the  wonderful  way  in  which  they  used  to 
fall  into  two  groups,  quite  as  if  some  very  clever  person 
had  sifted  them  out.  One  group  went  on  with  the  work, 

325 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


for  those  pupils  were  in  earnest,  —  they  saw.  And  the 
other  group  trifled  for  a  while,  but  soon  dissolved  com 
pletely  away.  After  a  few  weeks  not  one  would  be  left. 
My  husband  never  urged  them  to  try.  He  would  not  coax 
them  to  remain  in  the  studio.  He  always  let  them  go. 
He  would  say  to  me,  4  No,  my  dear,  it  is  of  no  use, —  the 
inward  fire  is  not  there !  They  cannot  paint,  if  they  have 
nothing  to  say.  Let  them  go  into  the  world,  —  yes,  let 
them  suffer,  if  need  be.  It  is  not  such  a  bad  thing  to 
suffer,  if  in  the  end  the  soul  wakes  up.  It  is  infinitely 
better  than  not  to  feel  anything.  These  young  persons 
that  you  would  have  me  be  crutches  for  do  not  feel.  They 
must  get  on  fire,  even  if  the  fire  burns !  Then  they  can  do 
something.  But  not  now,  —  not  yet ! '  It  took  me  some 
years  to  come  to  my  husband's  point  of  view.  It  is  so 
bitter  to  fail.  I  wanted  always  to  smooth  over  the  failure, 
and  set  the  people  on  their  feet,  and  urge  them  to  go  on. 
Leon  Costello  would  weep  at  the  failures,  but  he  would  not 
let  the  tears  be  seen.  He  showed  me  that  the  tragedy  was 
not  in  the  paint-brush,  but  in  the  soul  itself,  and  that  the 
cure  must  be  in  the  soul,  too.  God  himself,  Leon  Costello 
used  to  say,  cannot  cure  a  sick  soul.  It  must  cure  itself 
by  casting  out  the  seeds  of  its  own  malady,  the  sloth,  the 
self-indulgence,  the  selfishness,  and  then  redemption  is  at 
hand!" 

Although  Mrs.  Costello's  voice  was  so  high-pitched,  the 
tone  was  very  low,  almost  a  whisper,  and  its  musical  qual 
ity  had  never  been  more  evident.  It  seemed  to  Robert  not 
so  much  an  outer  voice  speaking,  as  an  inner  voice  in  his 
own  spirit. 

Alicia  always  listened  attentively  whenever  Mrs.  Cos- 
326 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FKIENDS 

tello  spoke.  Alicia  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  thinking  with  her 
friend,  and  now,  when  Mrs.  Costello  stopped  speaking, 
Alicia's  words  came  almost  as  a  continuation.  "  It  seems  to 
me  that  one  might  say  the  same  about  all  art,  about  every 
attempt  to  express  one's  self.  It  is  quite  the  same  in 
writing,  is  it  not?  One  needs  careful  training.  There  is 
a  distinct  technique  to  be  acquired.  But  the  issue  does 
not  rest  here.  It  is  whether  one  has  something  to  say.  It 
is  not  a  question  of  one's  ability  to  write;  it  is  a  question 
of  one's  ability  to  live." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Costello,  "there  is  but  one  art,  since 
art  is  the  outward  expression  of  the  human  spirit.  But 
there  are  different  avenues  of  expression  for  different 
temperaments.  If  I  may  venture  so  personal  a  remark,  I 
should  say,  Mr.  Pendexter,  that  aside  from  some  special 
and  infrequent  occasions,  writing  would  not  be  the  nat 
ural  way  for  you  to  express  yourself.  It  happens  to  be 
for  Miss  Frothingham.  But  I  should  say  that  it  would  n't 
satisfy  you  to  speak  in  words  or  in  sounds.  They  have 
not  body  enough.  You  are  too  conscious  of  form  and  color 
and  the  material  setting  of  life." 

"  I  have  great  faith  in  your  judgment,"  Kobert  an 
swered,  "  but  I  can't  think  of  myself  as  a  painter  or  even 
as  a  sculptor.  I  hardly  knew  what  these  terms  meant  until 
a  few  months  ago,  and  even  now  I  am  just  beginning  to 
learn." 

"No,  you  will  not  be  either.  Something  would  keep 
you  from  it.  Since  we  are,  in  a  way,  children  of  the 
same  intellectual  mother,  I  may  speak  quite  frankly,  may 
I  not  ?  One  always  thinks  of  young  men  and  careers  in 
the  same  connection.  I  fancy  that  when  you  return 

327 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


to  America,  it  will  be  to  take  up  some  career,  will  it 
not?" 

"  Yes,  I  must  be  doing  something.  I  could  never  lounge 
all  my  life.  It 's  going  to  be  a  puzzle  to  hit  on  just  the 
right  thing.  Perhaps  I  shall  get  at  it  by  what  Mr.  Morse 
calls  a  process  of  exclusion,  by  ranging  up  various  careers 
and  cutting  out  the  impossible  ones.  It  would  be  melan 
choly,  though,  if  none  remained ! " 

"  I  think  you  may  dismiss  that  source  of  worrirnent, " 
said  Mrs.  Costello,  lightly.  "  There  is  something  for  every 
one  to  do,  and  it 's  one's  very  particular  business  to  find 
out  what  it  is." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  —  I  think  you  're  quite 
right  about  it  —  just  why  it  seems  to  you  I  could  never 
be  a  painter  or  sculptor  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Mrs.  Costello.  "  To  be  great, 
a  painter  needs  a  wealth  of  imagination.  Leon  Costello  had 
it  and  so  he  was  great.  A  painter  must  see  the  world  wholly 
as  a  vision,  quite  divorced  from  uses.  In  a  word,  he  must 
be  an  extreme  idealist.  If  I  may  say  so,  you  have  under 
your  undoubted  ideality  too  practical  a  bent  to  be  a 
painter.  If  you  were  to  paint  a  picture,  you  would  want 
it  to  tell  a  pretty  definite  story,  rather  than  to  symbolize 
the  more  permanent  elements  in  life.  And  that  would  be 
quite  mediocre  art,  wouldn't  it?  In  sculpture  you  would 
be  handicapped  in  much  the  same  way.  I  think  you  could 
do  portrait  busts,  but  they  would  represent  men  and 
women  at  some  one  moment  in  their  career.  You  would 
not,  I  think,  be  able  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  whole  life 
and  what  it  really  stood  for.  It  would  be  an  instantaneous 
photograph  taken  at  some  fortuitous  moment,  and  not 

328 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCES,  NEW  FKIENDS 

presenting  the  composite  picture  which  would  show  us  the 
full  human  measure.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do,  and  I  think  it  is  all  true,  fatally 
true." 

There  was  a  look  of  genuine  depression  on  Robert's  face, 
for  Mrs.  Costello's  analysis  seemed  to  him  only  too  true. 

But  on  Mrs.  Costello's  own  face  there  was  no  trace  of 
any  shadow.  She  did  not  even  hasten  as  she  added,  "  Yes, 
fatally  true  as  regards  your  being  a  painter  or  a  sculptor. 
But  you  had  n't  thought  of  being  either  one  of  these  !  The 
absence  of  faculty  and  the  absence  of  desire  to  exercise  it 
go  hand  in  hand  more  frequently  than  we  sometimes  re 
member.  It  is  also  true,  my  friend,  —  fatally  true,  if  you 
like  the  term,  —  that  the  qualities  which  would  keep  you 
from  doing  what  you  dont  want  to  do,  will  in  good  sea 
son  help  you  in  what  you  do  want  to  do !  " 

There  was  no  withstanding  the  cheer  of  Mrs.  Costello's 
voice  and  words.  Robert's  face  cleared  up  and  he  laughed 
softly.  It  was  such  a  comfort  to  look  at  his  limitations 
in  this  larger  way.  "  And  what  shall  I  want  to  be  doing  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Ah,  that 's  your  part  of  the  problem.  When  the  time 
comes  to  decide,  you  will  know  !  " 

As  they  parted  for  the  night,  both  Mrs.  Costello  and 
Alicia  gave  Robert  their  hand.  They  had  enjoyed  the 
evening,  they  said,  and  hoped  to  see  him  at  luncheon  on 
the  following  day. 

After  the  ladies  had  gone,  Robert  wandered  off  to  his 
favorite  roof-terrace.  Now  there  was  little  to  be  seen, 
save  a  dark  abyss  of  shadows,  with  the  lights  of  Naples 
sparkling  in  the  distance,  and  above  all,  the  deep  violet, 

329 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


star-studded  sky.  Kobert  sat  down  on  the  top  of  the  wall. 
He  liked  the  vague  formlessness  of  the  prospect  that 
stretched  before  him.  It  was  dark  and  unknown,  like  his 
own  future,  but  there  were  the  sparkling  lights,  and  above 
everything  else,  the  calm,  eternal  stars.  His  mood  was 
one  of  great  elevation.  He  foresaw  nothing  definite,  hoped 
for  nothing  definite.  But  he  felt  that  a  new  chapter  was 
opening  in  his  life,  and  that  new  currents  and  new  influ 
ences  were  astir.  And  especially  he  thought  of  his  mother. 
She  had  never  been  a  conscious  factor  in  his  life,  for  he 
had  no  memory  of  her  person.  But  he  was  beginning  to 
realize  that  her  blood  was  also  in  his  veins,  and  that  he 
was  not  wholly  a  Pendexter.  The  thought  filled  him  with 
a  new  hope  and  a  new  tenderness. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
ALICIA 

LIFE  at  the  Albergo  della  Cocumella  is  a  quiet,  dream-like 
process,  but  the  very  monotony  has  a  charm  about  it.  Mrs. 
Costello  and  Alicia  felt  that  they  had  come  to  quite  the 
right  place  for  their  literary  work,  and  Robert  began  to 
feel,  as  the  days  swept  around,  that  wherever  the  ladies 
were  was  quite  the  right  place  for  him.  He  became  con 
scious  of  new  values  and  new  influences.  And  above  all  he 
was  conscious  of  a  profound  harmony  in  his  surroundings. 
His  new  friends  and  his  new  home  both  seemed  to  breathe 
the  same  possibility,  —  the  possibility  of  a  life  alert  and 
yet  serene,  purposeful  and  yet  undogmatic.  In  Paris,  as 
we  have  seen,  Robert  was  for  taking  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
by  violence.  At  Cocumella,  it  seemed  to  lie  all  around  him. 
To  enter  in  was  not  a  process  of  assault,  but  the  gentler 
process  of  opening  the  eyes. 

The  outward  events  of  Robert's  life  were  very  simple, 
but  very  human.  He  was  becoming  interested  in  people, 
and  not  alone  the  highly  evolved  people  like  Mrs.  Costello 
and  Alicia,  but  also  the  humbler  people  of  the  Albergo  and 
the  Piazza.  His  concern  for  people  was  helpful  in  just  the 
proportion  that  it  was  disinterested.  One  sunny  day  it 
occurred  to  Robert  that  the  servants  of  the  Albergo,  in 
addition  to  having  names  and  domestic  functions,  also  had 
individual  desires  and  needs.  With  Viucenzo  he  had  already 
struck  up  a  friendship.  Now  he  began  to  go  down  the  line, 
and  to  find  that  all  around  him  a  very  human  drama  was 

331 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


going  on,  quite  as  worth  while  as  the  more  concentrated 
productions  at  the  Odeon.  Vincenzo  was  helped  in  his 
ministrations  by  his  little  son  Raffaello  and  his  godson 
Antonino,  and  also  by  a  strange  man  of  the  mighty  name 
of  Generino.    Raffaello  was  a  mite  of  a  boy,  only  twelve 
years  old,  and  in  his  tiny  dress-suit  looked  like  a  grown 
man  seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  an  opera-glass.  Some 
times  at  midnight,  when  Robert  made  his  way  downstairs 
along  the  dark  corridors,  a  letter  to  be  mailed  in  one  hand 
and  a  lighted  candle  in  the  other,  he  would  find  this  little 
mite  still  at  work,  perhaps  scrubbing  the  tessellated  floor 
of  the  entrance  hall.  Robert  had  not  thought  to  find  such 
cleanliness   in  Italy.    Then  he  would  constitute  himself 
educational  adviser  to  Vincenzo,  but  judging  from  the 
sand-man  too  often  visible  in  the  small  Raffaello's  dark 
eyes,  this  excellent  counsel  was  not  acted  upon.  Antonino 
was  a  sunny  youth,  as  became  the  namesake  of  the  patron 
saint  of  Sorrento.  He  had  a  fondness  for  American  flags. 
Robert  once  owned  a  pretty  silk  flag,  but  that  was  when 
he  first  went  to  Cocumella.  Now  it  was  Antonino's.  The 
boy  came  and  asked  for  it.   Robert  thought  that  he  was 
lending  it  to  him,  but  it  seems  that  he  gave  it,  and  he 
never  had  the  heart  to  correct  the  mistake.  Robert  learned 
that  Antonino  would  soon  be  going  into  the  army.   He 
would  get  two  soldi  a  day.  But  he  was  not  averse  to  going. 
For  one  thing,  he  would  wear  a  hat  with  a  great  black 
plume  of  down-falling  cock's  feathers,  and  that  would  be 
becoming ! 

Robert  was  interested  to  find  that  in  spite  of  their  pre 
occupation  with  the  Indian  manuscript,  both  Mrs.  Costello 
and  Alicia  knew  all  the  humble  folk  of  the  Albergo  as 

332 


ALICIA 


well  as  he  did,  and  through  Angelina,  of  the  brooms  and 
dust-brushes,  extended  their  knowledge  even  further. 

Nor  was  the  life  devoid  of  pretty  merry-making.  The 
Tarantella  came  to  the  Albergo  as  often  as  a  sufficient 
number  of  forestieri  were  found  willing  to  pay  for  it. 
Antonino's  pretty  sister  danced  in  the  Tarantella.  She 
was  to  have  married  Vincenzo's  older  son,  but  the  boy 
was  of  a  domestic  mind  and  ranged  the  Tarantella  on  one 
side  and  himself  on  the  other.  It  was  a  rash  measure,  for 
at  Sorrento  the  Tarantella  is  very  fascinating.  Catarina 
chose  the  Tarantella  and  the  boy  went  off  to  Rome. 
When  Catarina  danced,  Vincenzo  watched  Catarina,  and 
Robert  watched  Vincenzo.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  Vin 
cenzo  regarded  his  son  as  a  person  of  more  than  doubtful 
taste.  In  truth,  Catarina  was  the  pearl  of  the  Tarantella, 
so  sweet  and  wholesome,  as  well  as  so  pretty,  that  it  was 
no  desecration  to  watch  her  dance.  The  troupe  was  a 
merry  one,  perhaps  the  best  in  Italy.  There  were  five  or 
six  girls,  and  perhaps  as  many  men,  dressed  in  lovely, 
hundred-year-old  costumes  of  silk  and  velvet,  rainbows 
faded  into  beauty,  and  armed  with  the  more  slender  in 
struments  of  music, —  castanet,  tambourine,  mandolin, 
and  guitar.  In  the  background  were  other  musicians  in 
plainer  vestments,  effectively  handling  the  'cello  and  violin. 

The  singing  could  not  truthfully  be  praised,  but  the 
dancing  was  altogether  charming.  The  main  dance  of  the 
Tarantella  is  a  slow  quadrille,  enlivened  by  the  use  of 
bright  scarfs  and  castanets  and  tambourines,  and  graced 
by  a  considerable  show  of  posing  and  tableaux.  Then  there 
are  special  dances  and  farces.  If  the  audience  is  mainly 
English-speaking,  the  funny  little  love  scenes  of  mixed 

333 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


sugar  and  vinegar  usually  terminate  in  some  abrupt  de 
claration  in  English  which  is  pretty  sure  to  bring  a 
laugh.  Then  the  orchestra  strikes  up  the  national  airs, 
"Hail  Columbia  "  and  "  God  save  the  King,"  and  all  the 
company  rise  with  more  than  formal  sentiment.  The  Ta 
rantella  is  over.  Vincenzo  collects  the  silver  in  the  morning, 
and  suggests  that  if  the  gentlemen  would  care  to  give  an 
extra  lira  for  the  wine,  it  would  be  a  gracious  deed  and 
quite  in  harmony  with  the  gentlemen's  well-known  good 
ness.  Robert  always  yielded  to  this  artistic  persuasion  and 
gave  at  least  two  lire. 

Mrs.  Costello  and  Alicia  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
merry-making  most  thoroughly.  The  hard,  metallic  voices 
distressed  Mrs.  Costello  more  than  the  others  guessed,  but 
the  innocent  abandonment  of  the  singers  and  their  pretty 
costumes,  and  above  all  the  sweet  smile  of  Catarina,  quite 
enchanted  her.  "  The  child  has  the  genuine  spirit  of  the 
artist,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  I  quite  understand  why  she  did 
not  marry  Vincenzo's  son.  She  did  entirely  right.  But  I 
must  say  that  he  was  a  surprisingly  foolish  fellow  not  to 
take  her,  TaranteUa  and  all ! " 

"  You  have  a  touch  of  romance  in  you  that  is  quite  in 
exhaustible,  Carissima,"  said  Alicia,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  It  would  be  a  dull  world  with  love  left 
out,  wouldn't  it,  Mr.  Pendexter?  I  wish  we  might  talk 
with  Catarina." 

"  That  can  be  easily  arranged,"  said  Robert.  "  I  '11  ask 
Vincenzo  to  bring  her  up  and  introduce  her." 

Robert  started  to  go  on  his  errand,  but  Mrs.  Costello 
quickly  detained  him.  "  Oh,  don't  do  that,  please.  It 
would  be  too  formal,  and  we  should  get  nothing  but  a 

334 


ALICIA 


little  surface  talk.  Let  us  go  down  to  her.  Don't  you 
think  we  might,  Alicia  ?  " 

Alicia  assented,  and  the  three  moved  down  the  corridor 
to  where  the  dancers  sat  fanning  themselves  and  catching 
their  breath.  There  was  a  vacant  chair  next  to  Catarina. 
Mrs.  Costello  sat  down  in  it,  and  took  the  girl's  hand  in 
hers.  "  My  dear,"  she  said  in  Italian,  "  you  have  given  us 
great  pleasure,  —  my  friends  and  me.  I  want  to  thank 
you  for  it."  It  was  not  so  much  the  words  as  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello's  friendly  smile  and  manner  that  made  her  approval 
so  winning. 

The  girl  showed  her  big  white  teeth  as  she  smiled  back 
at  Mrs.  Costello.  "  It  is  nothing  !  "  she  said  simply  ;  "  I 
should  like  to  do  it  for  you  again.  I  could  dance  and  sing 
all  the  night  long.  You  must  not  thank  me.  Really  I  do 
it  for  myself.  If  there  was  nobody  in  the  room,  and  I  had 
the  music,  I  would  do  just  the  same.  But  I  like  to  have 
you  pleased,  my  lady.  That  gives  me  happiness,  too,  — 
you  and  your  friends  ;  "  and  Catarina  smiled  up  at  Alicia 
and  Robert  so  charmingly  that  they  both  smiled  back  with 
ready  sympathy. 

"  I  know  now  why  you  do  it  so  well,"  said  Mrs.  Cos 
tello.  "  It  is  because  you  love  it.  You  have  the  true  artist 
spirit.  Have  you  had  instruction  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  My  mother  danced  the  Tarantella  be 
fore  I  was  born.  She  taught  it  to  me  when  I  was  a  little 
girl." 

"  Ah,  it  is  in  the  blood  !  My  dear,  does  your  mother  still 
dance?" 

"I  hope  so  —  yes,  I  believe  so,"  answered  Catarina. 
"  She  is  with  the  blessed  saints.  But  it  would  not  be 

335 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


heaven  to  my  mother,  —  or  to  me,  —  if  we  could  not 
dance !  " 

Mrs.  Costello  pressed  the  girl's  hand.  "  I  like  to  hear 
you  say  that,  my  dear.  It  is  what  my  husband  used  to  say 
of  his  art.  He  was  a  great  painter." 

Catarina  did  not  say  anything,  but  when  Mrs.  Costello 
looked  up,  she  smiled  a  smile  of  such  rare  sympathy 
that  an  unaccustomed  mist  dimmed  Mrs.  Costello's  eyes. 
"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "but  we  ought  not  to 
keep  you  any  longer.  I  did  want  to  ask  you  a  little  about 
your  voice,  though.  It  tires  you  to  sing,  non  e  vero?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  That  does  not  come  so  easy  as  to 
dance.  My  mother  did  not  teach  me  that.  I  just  had  to 
learn  it  myself.  I  could  not  afford  to  go  to  Napoli  to 
the  great  Signer  Rondinella.  He  would  have  made  me 
sing  much  better.  I  do  not  sing  well,  my  lady,  I  know 
that." 

"No,  you  do  not  sing  well,"  answered  Mrs.  Costello, 
quite  honestly,  —  "  not  as  well  as  you  are  going  to.  It  is 
because  you  do  not  use  your  voice  aright.  It  is  not  so 
sweet  as  when  you  talk.  May  I  help  you,  if  I  can?  I 
think  I  could  give  you  a  few  suggestions  that  I  got  in 
Paris  from  Madame  Marchesi.  Come  and  see  me  to-mor 
row  afternoon,  will  you  not  ?  Perhaps  later  we  might  go 
together  and  consult  the  great  Signor  Rondinella.  I  think 
my  husband  used  to  know  him  in  Florence." 

Catarina  clasped  her  hands  together  in  a  transport  of 
delight.  "  Oh,  my  lady,"  she  cried,  "  you  and  the  saints 
are  very  good.  It  is  what  I  have  always  wanted  !  " 

"  At  least  you  are  half  right,  my  dear,  —  the  saints  are 
very  good,"  answered  Mrs.  Costello,  rising.  Catarina  rose 

336 


ALICIA 


also,  and  bade  them  all  a  pretty  good-night.  "  Ah,  these 
Italians,"  said  Mrs.  Costello  to  the  others  in  English.  "  I 
never  speak  with  them  that  they  do  not  fill  me  with  envy. 
They  do  so  naturally  what  we  with  all  our  art  never  do 
quite  so  well.  Is  it  because  our  culture  is  still  so  self-con 
scious  ?  " 

"  You,  at  least,  have  no  cause  to  upbraid  yourself,  dear 
Mrs.  Costello,"  said  Alicia.  "  I  doubt  if  even  an  Italian 
could  have  told  that  girl  that  she  sang  abominably,  and 
made  her  love  her  for  it !  " 

«'  Alicia !  "  Mrs.  Costello  exclaimed  protestingly,  "  I 
did  n't  tell  the  girl  that  she  sang  abominably,  —  did  I, 
Mr.  Pendexter  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Robert,  "  you  did  n't  tell  her,  but  you 
certainly  made  her  wholesomely  aware  of  it." 

"  That  was  where  your  art  came  in,  Carissima." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  it  was  the  truth." 

At  this  both  Alicia  and  Robert  laughed,  and  Alicia 
added,  "  I  hear  that  most  of  the  men  sing  in  the  cathedral 
choir.  I  like  the  idea  of  it.  We  must  go  to  the  cathe 
dral  some  day  and  hear  them.  I  met  the  Archbishop  the 
other  day.  He  bowed  most  amiably  and  bestowed  a  bless- 
ing." 

"  They  are  charming,  simply  charming,"  said  Mrs.  Cos 
tello,  with  an  air  of  conviction.  "  Do  you  still  find  them 
so,  Mr.  Pendexter?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  answered  Robert,  enthusiastically.  "  But 
I  love  the  children  best  of  all.  I  must  tell  you  something 
that  happened  to  me  yesterday.  I  was  walking  along  a 
lonely  road  upon  the  hills.  I  did  n't  know  that  any  one 
was  within  a  mile  of  me,  when  suddenly,  as  if  they  had 

337 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


sprung  out  of  the  ground,  three  small  boys  stood  in  front 
of  me.  I  have  n't  the  slightest  idea  where  they  came  from. 
Each  boy  held  out  his  hand.  I  shook  my  head  and  said 
that  I  sometimes  gave  money  to  old  people  who  could  n't 
work  any  more,  but  never  to  boys ;  that  boys  ought  to 
work  and  not  beg." 

"A  very  proper  doctrine,"  said  Alicia.  "Were  they 
duly  impressed  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  not.  The  smallest  boy,  surely  not  over 
eleven,  went  through  the  customary  pantomime  of  eating 
macaroni,  and  said  that  he  was  hungry,  very  hungry.  He 
was  such  a  chubby,  well-fed  little  boy  that  I  just  laughed. 
I  gave  his  red  cheeks  a  pinch  and  said  that  he  could  n't 
possibly  be  hungry,  that  such  a  healthy-looking  little  boy 
had  always  had  enough  to  eat.  He  was  somewhat  abashed, 
but  only  for  an  instant.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  said  with 
an  air  of  entire  conviction,  '  Well,  you  know  if  I  ate  more, 
I  might  grow  to  be  as  tall  as  you  are ! '  I  could  n't  help 
it,  I  just  had  to  give  each  boy  twenty  centesimi.  For  the 
moment,  at  least,  they  were  supremely  happy.  Each  boy 
shook  hands  with  me  and  thanked  me  most  politely.  Not 
content  with  that,  they  walked  with  me  a  full  mile,  and 
unconsciously  gave  me  a  better  Italian  lesson  than  St. 
Augustine  does.  Did  I  not  find  Sorrento  charming  ?  Did 
I  know  that  Torquato  Tasso  had  been  born  here  ?  Was  I 
fond  of  watching  Vesuvio  ?  Could  it  be  as  pretty  as  this 
in  the  country  where  I  came  from  ?  —  a  perfect  string  of 
questions." 

"  It  was  quite  wrong  of  you  to  give  them  the  money," 
said  Alicia ;  "  but  I  should  have  done  just  the  same  thing. 
They  are  perfectly  irresistible." 

338 


ALICIA 


"  They  have  a  social  genius,  these  pretty  little  people  of 
Italy,"  said  Mrs.  Costello.  "  It  is  quite  worth  the  trouble 
of  learning  something  of  their  beautiful  language  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  talking  to  them." 

"  I  feel  repaid  for  all  the  work  I  've  done  with  St. 
Augustine,"  replied  Robert.  "  If  I  forget  all  my  little 
stock  of  Italian,  it  will  still  have  been  quite  worth 
while." 

"  They  are  so  clever,"  added  Alicia,  —  "a  mere  shrug 
suffices." 

"  I  can  do  a  trifle  more  than  that,"  said  Robert,  laugh 
ing.  "  Ask  St.  Augustine." 

Alicia  laughed,  too.  "  Forgive  the  implication.  I  really 
didn't  mean  to  be  wicked." 

"  Let  us  admire  them,"  suggested  Mrs.  Costello,  "  but 
let  us  be  honorably  careful  not  to  spoil  them.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  forestieri  are  doing  their  best  to  spoil  all 
the  children,  here  and  at  Capri  and  all  over  Italy.  Hap 
pily,  in  all  childish  hearts  God  seems  to  keep  always  an 
eternally  unspoiled  corner.  I  think,  Alicia,  that  we  must 
be  saying  good-night  to  Mr.  Pendexter."  Mrs.  Costello 
turned  to  Robert  and  added,  "  Thank  you,  dear  friend, 
for  a  very  pleasant  evening." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Mrs.  Costello  had  ever  spoken 
to  Robert  in  just  this  intimate  way,  and  it  gave  him  pe 
culiar  pleasure.  He  knew  that  with  her  it  was  no  idle 
phrase.  He  felt  honored,  and  very  humble,  too,  that  so 
rare  a  woman  should  have  given  him  her  friendship.  He 
went  up  to  bed  pondering  as  to  how  he  might  be  worthy 
of  this  honor. 

The  following  morning  Alicia  surprised  Robert  by  com- 
339 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


ing  down  to  breakfast.  As  every  one  knows,  breakfast 
at  Cocumella  is  far-famed.  It  is  not  limited  to  coffee 
and  bread  and  butter  and  honey,  the  orthodox  Continental 
breakfast,  but  adds  hot  toast  and  ponente,  and  oranges 
gathered  fresh  from  the  garden,  and  boiled  eggs  into  the 
bargain,  —  two  if  you  are  a  man,  but  only  one  if  you 
belong  to  the  superior  sex.  It  is  this  last  discrimination 
which  has  sent  the  reputation  of  the  Albergo  far  and  wide. 
The  men  like  the  substance  of  the  two  eggs ;  the  women 
the  dainty  compliment  which  credits  them  with  appetite 
for  only  one.  Robert  usually  ate  breakfast  at  the  large 
table.  When  he  was  not  too  prompt,  he  had  the  pleasure 
of  agreeable  talk  with  a  couple  of  wholesome  English 
girls,  the  Hon.  Emily  Main  waring  and  the  Hon.  Lucy 
Mainwaring.  They  were  friendly,  but  perplexing.  For 
two  or  three  mornings  the  Hon.  Emily  would  sit  next  to 
Robert ;  then  for  an  equal  number  of  mornings  the  Hon. 
Lucy  would  take  that  place.  Robert  could  not  quite  fathom 
the  philosophy  of  this  circulation.  When  he  was  proud, 
he  told  himself  that  it  was  an  arrangement  for  enabling 
them  to  share  the  benefits  of  his  instructive  conversation ; 
but  when  he  felt  humble,  the  alternation  looked  to  him 
like  a  Christian  device  for  helping  to  bear  one  another's 
burdens  ;  and  as  he  commonly  felt  more  humble  than 
proud,  the  plan  on  the  whole  was  depressing.  When 
Alicia  came  down,  she  naturally  went  to  their  own  little 
side-table,  and  Robert  at  once  joined  her.  This  was  the 
easier,  as  his  own  breakfast  had  not  yet  been  served,  and 
the  Hon.  Emily  and  the  Hon.  Lucy  had  not  yet  made 
their  appearance. 

"  What  good  luck  to  have  you  at  breakfast ! "  cried 

340 


ALICIA 


Robert.  "  This  explains  why  I  felt  so  tip-toppy  when  I 
got  up  this  morning,  —  so  jolly  glad  to  be  alive,  as  our 
English  friends  would  say.  How  does  it  all  happen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  thought  I  would  see  what  it  is  like  in  the 
salle  a  manger  in  the  morning,"  Alicia  answered.  "  And 
then  I  'm  going  directly  out  to  sketch.  It 's  too  perfect  a 
day  to  stay  indoors.  Mrs.  Costello  will  get  on  without  me. 
Would  you  care  to  come  along  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would,"  said  Robert.  "  I  '11  fetch  my 
own  sketch-book,  if  I  may,  and  see  for  once  how  the  thing 
ought  to  be  done." 

Robert's  interest  in  sketching  was  not  keen  enough, 
however,  to  make  him  an  advocate  of  haste.  He  was  con 
sciously  glad  that  the  Cocumella  breakfast  was  so  famously 
elaborate,  and  he  lingered  over  this  meal  as  long  as  he 
well  could.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  and  Alicia  had 
ever  eaten  together  alone.  It  seemed  to  give  their  friend 
ship  an  air  of  pleasant  intimacy.  There  was  no  egotism 
in  the  lingering.  It  was  just  pleasant  to  be  sitting  there 
face  to  face  with  Alicia,  and  to  have  her  all  to  himself. 
When  Mrs.  Costello  was  present,  Alicia  seemed  to  have 
eyes  and  ears  for  no  one  else.  But  with  Mrs.  Costello 
upstairs,  Alicia's  delightful  habit  of  turning  so  brightly  to 
the  person  with  whom  she  was  talking  made  it  seem  for 
the  moment  that  she  was  giving  herself  wholly  to  Robert. 
He  knew  it  was  only  a  habit,  and  that  it  signified  nothing ; 
but  it  took  complete  possession  of  him  nevertheless,  and 
made  it  seem  as  if  soul  touched  soul. 

Alicia  had  already  settled  upon  the  subject  for  her 
sketch.  It  was  to  be  the  charming  little  lane  that  leads 
down  to  the  sea  from  where  the  main  highway  turns  so 

341 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


abruptly  up  to  Sant'  Agnello.  She  and  Robert  were  soon 
settled  at  what  Alicia  considered  a  suitable  point  of  view, 
their  camp-chairs  facing  the  sunny  pink  walls,  and  their 
backs  turned  to  the  sun.  Alicia  had  a  light  easel  before 
her  and  a  sketch-block  for  water  colors.  Robert  had 
merely  his  sketch-book  and  pencils,  for  as  yet  he  did  not 
venture  anything  beyond  black  and  white. 

"  The  light  is  not  quite  right  yet,"  said  Alicia.  "  I  think 
we  would  better  wait  a  few  minutes  until  the  sun  gets  up 
a  little  farther,  —  let  us  say  until  the  shadow  has  gone  off 
that  pretty  bed  of  mignonette." 

Robert  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  That  will  be  at  least  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Meanwhile  I  see  something  pleasant 
to  do."  He  sprang  up  and  ran  over  to  the  flowers.  "  I 
will  gather  you  a  charming  bouquet." 

"  Oh,  please  don't,"  cried  Alicia.  "  Please  don't  touch 
them.  It  kills  them  to  pick  them.  I  hate  to  have  them 
murdered." 

Robert  stopped  in  astonishment.  "  Do  you  never  wear 
them?  "  he  asked,  "  or  have  them  in  your  room?  " 

"  Never,  unless  some  one  unkindly  sends  them  to  me. 
Then  I  nurse  them  along  for  as  many  days  as  I  can,  and 
feel  guilty  of  murder  every  time  I  look  at  them.  I  like 
the  story  of  the  Empress  Komio,  that  Mr.  Okakura  told 
us.  She  was  speaking  of  flowers  offered  to  the  Buddha.  I 
don't  remember  the  exact  words,  but  it  was  something 
like  this :  '  If  I  pluck  them,  the  touch  of  my  hand  will 
defile.  So  I  offer  them  just  as  they  are,  standing  in  the 
fields  and  meadows,  all  these  beautiful,  wind-blown  flowers, 
to  the  Buddhas  of  the  past  and  the  present  and  the  future. ' 
Don't  you  think  that 's  a  pretty  story  ?" 

342 


ALICIA 


"  Moderately  pretty,  for  then  the  empress  could  offer  so 
many  flowers  and  such  fresh  ones.  But  it 's  different  giv 
ing  the  flowers, — just  a  little  bouquet  of  them  —  to  a 
lady." 

"  Don't  you  think  a  lady  would  care  for  many  flowers 
and  to  have  them  always  fresh  ?  "  asked  Alicia,  smiling. 

"  Of  course,  but  she  has  those  already.  I  believe  women 
always  see  flowers,  all  there  are.  But  it 's  nice  to  have  a 
few  for  your  very  own,  so  you  can  handle  them  and  smell 
them." 

"  But  think  of  the  poor  flowers,"  Alicia  persisted. 

"  All  right.  I  am  thinking  of  them.  If  I  gave  them  to 
you,  I  think  they  would  rather  die  in  such  a  service  than 
live  without  it !  " 

"  Bravely  said,"  cried  Alicia.  "  I  see  you  agree  with 
dear  Mrs.  Costello.  She  feels  that  we  ought  sometimes 
to  accept  a  service  whether  we  want  it  or  not,  just  for  the 
sake  of  the  giver." 

"  May  I  bring  you  the  flowers,  then  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  must,"  answered  Alicia.  "  That  would  be 
the  only  logical  thing  to  do  now,  would  n't  it  ?  But  not 
more  than  two  or  three,  please.  I  will  let  them  acquire 
merit  by  dying  for  me  !  " 

Robert  chose  fastidiously,  and  at  last  brought  her  three 
perfect  branches.  He  seated  himself  on  his  camp-chair. 
The  shadow  had  retreated  but  halfway  across  the  bed  of 
mignonette,  so  he  and  Alicia  still  waited.  There  was  a 
silence  for  some  moments.  Alicia  could  be  perfectly  silent 
without  embarrassment  or  any  feeling  that  silence  de 
manded  an  apology.  Robert  was  slowly  learning  to  do  the 
same,  but  the  accomplishment  was  still  too  recent  to  be 

343 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


exercised  without  effort.  As  a  result,  Robert's  silences 
were  never  perfect.  They  had  the  nervous  tension  of  mere 
pauses.  Perhaps  Alicia  felt  this,  for  presently  she  turned 
to  Robert  and  said,  "  I  should  much  like  to  see  your 
sketches ;  may  I  ?  " 

Robert  hesitated.  He  meant  never  to  hesitate  or  apolo 
gize,  but  like  his  acquired  silence,  the  habit  was  new,  and 
halted. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Alicia,  kindly,  "  if  you  would  pre 
fer  not  to  show  them." 

Robert  handed  her  the  book  eagerly.  "  But  I  really 
want  you  to  see  them,"  he  hurried  to  say,  "  and  to  tell  me 
what 's  wrong  about  them.  I  only  hesitated  because  they  're 
so  poor.  I  'm  almost  ashamed  to  let  you  see  them !  " 

Alicia  took  the  book  when  she  saw  that  Robert  really 
wanted  her  to.  "I  don't  see  that  you  have  any  cause  to 
be  ashamed,"  she  said.  "  You  never  claimed  that  your 
sketches  were  good."  She  turned  over  the  leaves  slowly, 
giving  each  sketch  very  careful  attention.  But  she  made 
no  comment.  When  she  had  finished,  she  turned  back  and 
looked  at  several  of  the  sketches  a  second  time.  Then  she 
returned  the  book  to  Robert.  "  They  are  very  different, 
are  they  not  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  tried  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  just  for  prac 
tice,  you  know." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that,"  Alicia  answered,  with  a  bright 
smile.  "  One  would  not  wish  to  go  on  sketching  the  same 
thing,  or  even  the  same  class  of  thing.  That  would  be  very 
dull.  I  mean  that  the  sketches  are  so  totally  different  that 
I  should  never  have  guessed  that  they  were  made  by  the 
same  person.  Were  they  ?  " 

344 


ALICIA 


"  Yes,"  replied  Robert.  "  At  least,  they  were  all  made 
by  me.  I  can't  say  that  it  was  always  the  same  *  me.' ' 

"  Do  they  seem  the  same  to  you  ?  "  Alicia  asked. 

"  Yes  and  no,"  said  Robert.  "  I  like  some  of  them  much 
better  than  the  others.  But  they  all  belong  to  the  same 
family.  As  I  look  them  over,  I  have  a  feeling  that  it  was 
I  who  did  them,  but  that  I  was  luckier  in  some  cases  than 
in  others.  What  would  you  say  was  the  difference  ?  " 

Alicia  laughed,  and  answered  with  a  touch  of  mischief 
in  her  voice,  "  To  be  perfectly  frank,  the  difference  is  that 
some  of  them  —  two  or  three  —  are  so  very  good  !  " 

Robert  laughed  too,  a  hearty,  boyish  laugh,  for  now 
he  felt  perfectly  at  ease.  "  And  the  rest,"  he  said,  "  are 
so  very  poor?"  Alicia  nodded.  "I  knew  that,"  he  con 
tinued;  "  sometimes  I  struck  it,  and  sometimes  I  didn't." 

"  The  difference  seems  to  me  much  greater  than  mere 
luck,"  Alicia  replied.  "  It  is  as  if  the  sketches  had  been 
made  by  quite  different  persons.  It  interests  me,  for  I 
want  to  know  which  is  the  real  Mr.  Pendexter,  the  one 
who  can  sketch  or  the  one  who  can't !  " 

"  Both  are,  I  guess,"  said  Robert.  "  I  used  to  be  just 
one  person  before  I  came  to  Europe.  But  now  I  am  two 
or  three,  —  a  half  a  dozen,  —  in  fact,  I  hardly  know  my 
self.  Sometimes  I  think  I  ought  to  have  stopped  in 
Doane  Street  and  gone  on  dealing  in  coffee  and  spices !  " 
Robert  spoke  almost  bitterly,  as  a  man  wearied  with  in 
cessant  fighting  over  issues  he  does  not  understand. 

Alicia  looked  at  Robert  quickly.  "  Don't  say  that !  " 
she  begged.  "  That  would  make  any  one  who  cared  for  you 
almost  hate  you,  —  that  is,  if  they  believed  you  meant  it." 

"Would  you  hate  me?"  asked  Robert. 
345 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  If  I  cared  for  you,  I  should  certainly  hate  you ;  and 
the  more  I  cared,  the  more  I  should  hate.  One  does  n't 
like  a  man  to  turn  back.  You  have  put  your  hand  to  the 
plow,  and  now  there  's  but  one  thing  to  do." 

"  I  'm  not  a  coward !  "  said  Robert,  proudly. 

"  I  know  you  're  not.  If  I  thought  you  were,  I  should  n't 
take  the  trouble  to  talk  to  you !  " 

"  The  bother  is  that  I  can't  see.  If  I  could  see  the  fur 
row  and  where  it  leads  to,  I  'd  follow  it,  even  if  it  meant 
death." 

"  Any  one  would,"  Alicia  answered.  "  It  would  n't  take 
much  courage  to  do  that !  But  there  is  no  furrow.  It 's  the 
man  with  the  plow  who  makes  the  furrow.  And  if  there 
were  one  already  made  for  us,  all  the  fun  would  be  gone 
from  the  game.  One  would  better  be  selling  coffee  and 
spices  than  to  be  led  by  the  nose  into  predestined  glories 
of  the  first  order.  You  would  still  have  the  mild  excite 
ment  of  wondering  how  many  pounds  you  could  sell !  It  is 
vastly  better  to  have  made  those  three  really  good  sketches, 
and  to  have  the  rest  as  poor  as  they  are,  than  to  have  had 
them  all  poor.  One  cannot  take  a  journey  and  yet  stand 
still.  I  wonder  what  inertia  gets  into  our  blood  that  we  are 
always  seeking  an  abiding-place,  always  asking  for  rest. 
Why  this  heart-broken  quest  for  something  that,  if  we  got 
it,  would  drive  us  to  opium  ?  There  is  no  possible  standing 
still  for  any  one  who  is  genuinely  alive.  There  are  tempo 
rary  havens,  like  Cocumella,  where  one  may  catch  one's 
breath,  but  there  is  no  permanent  rest.  The  secret  of  hap 
piness  is  to  find  serenity  in  motion,  to  glory  in  the  process 
as  well  as  in  the  result.  We  are  all  en  route.  It  chanced, 
dear  Mr.  Pendexter,  that  you  stood  still  for  a  long  time, 

346 


ALICIA 


—  thirty-four  years,  I  think  you  told  ine,  —  and  when  at 
last  you  got  started,  you  traveled  so  rapidly  that  it  has 
made  you  dizzy.  Surely  you  would  n't  want  to  stand  still 
again  ?  " 

"  My  God,  I  would  not ! "  Robert  answered  passion 
ately.  "  It 's  not  the  unrest  that 's  eating  me.  It 's  the 
uncertainty.  If  I  could  only  see  !  But  I  grope  along  in  the 
dark  without  one  shred  of  certainty.  I  am  pulled  this  way 
and  that  by  a  hundred  impulses.  They  might  fight  over 
me  like  furies  and  welcome,  if  I  could  only  see  that  I  was 
moving  towards  a  definite  end,  and  that  it  was  good.  I  am 
tossed  here  and  there  like  a  sand-bag  in  the  hands  of  fate, 

—  but  I  see  no  goal !  " 

"  There  is  no  goal,"  said  Alicia,  quietly. 

"  No  goal ! "  cried  Robert,  almost  fiercely.  "  Surely 
you  don't  mean  to  urge  that  one  is  to  toss  about  like  this 
forever." 

"  To  toss  about,  —  perhaps  yes,"  answered  Alicia.  "  But 
not  like  this,  not  at  fever  heat.  The  soul  may  find  serenity 
and  peace  in  the  midst  of  the  rush  and  whirl.  The  greater 
the  outer  turmoil,  the  more  varied  the  panorama,  the 
more  rapid  the  change,  —  in  short,  the  more  terrible  the 
storm  of  events,  —  the  richer  the  material  out  of  which 
the  soul  may  gather  knowledge  and  enlightenment.  I  am 
not,  you  see,  an  advocate  of  the  simple  life.  If  nothing- 
happened,  what  stupids  we  should  be,  how  intolerably  dull! 
If  we  keep  our  heads,  the  more  that  happens,  the  better. 
It  was  your  own  master,  Emerson,  who  said  that  all  life  is 
discipline.  Don't  pray  for  peace  in  the  outer  world.  Pray 
for  storms,  cyclones,  thunderbolts,  the  fiercest,  wildest 
uproar  imaginable,  and  let  the  peace  be  in  the  soul,  which 

347 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


gathers  from  this  whirlwind  the  seeds  of  knowledge  and 
wisdom.  After  all,  what  counts  ?  Your  house  is  struck  by 
lightning,  —  let  it  be  !  Perhaps  you  stayed  in  it  too  much 
and  valued  it  too  highly.  Your  money  vanishes,  —  let  it 
go !  Perhaps  it  was  a  prison,  and  held  you  back  from 
greater  flights.  Your  friend  dies, — mourn  for  him  and 
be  comforted.  You  may  have  leaned  on  him  too  heavily, 
and  will  now  learn  to  stand  alone.  What  really  counts  ? — 
but  one  thing,  dear  friend,  and  that  is  the  soul.  All  else 
must  minister  to  that  or  be  as  worse  than  nothing.  And 
as  for  this  goal  that  we  all  so  plague  ourselves  about,  it 
is  not  fixed,  I  think,  not  something  definite,  —  not  even, 
perhaps,  in  the  mind  of  God  Himself.  It  may  be  indicated, 
but  it  is  never  specified.  It  is  for  us  to  create  it.  And  we 
do  create  it,  Mr.  Pendexter,  every  day  of  our  lives.  The 
world  is  to-day  just  what  we  have  collectively  willed  it 
to  be.  But  the  destiny  of  the  world  —  the  total  goal  — 
shifts  from  day  to  day,  since  it  is  made  up  of  our  indi 
vidually  chosen  goals,  and  these  are  constantly  shifting. 
Personally,  I  have  quite  given  over  the  thought  of  any 
settled  goal,  and  I  can't  regret  it,  for  now  the  vista  is 
infinite.  I  know  what  seems  to  me  now  to  be  worth  while, 
and  I  live !  But  to-morrow  I  shall  also  live,  and  the  values 
of  my  choice  will  be  so  much  the  larger.  What  a  tremen 
dous,  exhilarating  thought,  dear  Mr.  Pendexter,  that  you 
and  I  can  change  the  destiny  of  the  world,  —  you  and  I, 
two  tiny  creatures,  sitting  here  in  this  lovely  lane  with 
idle,  folded  hands !  " 

"  Yes,  together"  said  Robert.  Then  he  suddenly  real 
ized  that  the  word  might  have  a  special  meaning,  and 
blushed  furiously.  But  Alicia  either  did  not  notice  it,  or 

348 


ALICIA 


else  chose  quite  to  ignore  any  personal  application,  for 
she  answered  with  the  same  even  enthusiasm  and  without 
change  of  manner,  "  Yes,  you  and  I,  and  dear  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello,  and  the  Master,  and  all  the  other  souls  that  are 
alive.  The  world  is  ours.  We  can  do  with  the  grand  old 
Mother  as  we  will ! " 

The  sun  had  more  than  covered  the  bed  of  mignonette. 
Alicia  set  about  her  sketch  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  it. 
When  she  painted,  she  painted  very  rapidly,  but  there 
were  long  intervals  when  she  seemed  to  be  doing  nothing. 
In  reality  she  was  studying  her  subject,  and  quite  forgot 
Robert  and  all  the  external  world  save  that  little  bit  of 
it  which  she  was  trying  to  seize  and  reproduce.  Robert 
did  not  attempt  to  sketch ;  he  was  not  in  the  mood  for  it. 
He  sat  there  very  quietly,  watching  Alicia.  It  was  some 
time  before  she  noticed  that  he  was  not  at  work.  "  Why, 
Mr.  Pendexter,  you  are  doing  nothing !  "  she  cried  almost 
reproachfully. 

"  Yes,"  said  Robert,  slowly,  "  I  am  doing  something.  I 
am  watching  you" 

"  Have  you  found  out  my  method  ?  "  Alicia  asked  gayly. 

«  No,"  admitted  Robert,  "  I  have  n't." 

"  It  is  really  very  simple.  It  is  the  Japanese  method. 
Most  of  the  time  I  do  not  even  have  the  brush  in  my  hand. 
I  sit  and  study  what  I  want  to  paint.  I  do  this  until  I  feel 
quite  sure  what  is  essential  and  what  accidental.  Then  I 
make  up  my  mind  which  of  the  essential  elements  must  be 
emphasized  to  bring  out  the  special  meaning  I  want  to 
express  in  the  picture  — 

"  And  then,"  laughed  Robert,  "  you  go  to  sleep  over 
it !  I  saw  you  close  your  eyes  several  times." 

349 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


"  I  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  protested  Alicia.  "  I  close 
my  eyes,  but  it  is  only  to  see  if  I  have  visualized  the 
picture.  When  I  have  done  that,  I  add  what  dear  Mrs. 
Costello  calls  4  the  personal  equation.'  It  is  my  own  con 
tribution  to  the  bare  suggestion  offered  by  Nature.  If  one 
did  not  do  that,  one  might  as  well  take  photographs." 

"  May  I  watch  you  work?  "  asked  Eobert,  drawing  his 
chair  a  little  nearer,  so  that  he  could  see  the  sketching- 
pad  and  watch  the  actual  process  of  putting  on  the  colors. 
"  Would  it  bother  you  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least,"  answered  Alicia.  "Watch  me  all 
you  like.  Ask  questions,  too,  if  you  want,  —  but  only  when 
I  have  my  eyes  open,  please.  I  don't  like  to  be  interrupted 
when  I  am  trying  to  feel  the  picture." 

Then  came  another  long  silence. 

Robert  did  not  care  to  ask  questions.  When  Alicia 
worked  with  her  brush,  he  watched  her  only  casually.  But 
when  she  had  her  eyes  closed,  he  studied  the  sketch  in 
tently.  He  was  trying  to  divine  her  mood,  and  to  guess 
what  personal  element  she  was  mixing  with  the  sun-smitten 
pink  walls  and  the  brilliant  foliage  and  the  transparent 
sky.  Rather  shyly  Robert  allowed  his  eyes  to  wander  from 
the  sketch  to  Alicia's  face.  Alicia  scarcely  seemed  to 
breathe.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  wholesome  color  of  the 
flesh,  one  might  have  thought  it  the  face  of  the  dead. 
Robert  was  struck  with  its  beauty  and  its  nobility.  He 
felt  that  Alicia  had  attained  something  which  he  had  not 
yet  been  able  to  grasp,  or  even  quite  to  formulate.  Invol 
untarily,  he  began  to  compare  Alicia's  face  to  Pauline's. 
But  he  instantly  put  the  thought  aside.  He  felt  that  it 
was  not  fair  to  Pauline.  Then  the  old  horrible  loneliness 

350 


ALICIA 


swept  over  him.  He  stood  between  two  worlds,  Pauline's 
and  Alicia's.  He  knew  that  Pauline's  world  was  not  for 
him.  Even  in  Paris,  he  had  been  smitten  by  its  limitations. 
The  warmth  and  comfort  of  Pauline's  world  attracted  him, 
but  all  the  time  a  deeper  self  had  pressed  its  own  vague, 
incoherent  needs.  In  Robert's  soul  there  was  eternal  war 
fare.  The  days  of  peace  were  but  the  days  of  an  armed 
truce. 

The  sun  was  warm  and  the  air  genial  in  the  little  lane 
leading  down  to  the  sea,  but  Robert  shivered  as  with  phys 
ical  cold.  He  was  thinking  of  the  inevitable  tragedy  had 
he  married  Pauline,  and  afterwards  discovered  that  in 
her  beautiful  natural  history  world  there  was  for  him 
no  abiding-place  and  satisfaction.  Then,  very  swiftly,  he 
thought  of  the  still  deeper  tragedy  had  he  married  her 
and  been  content.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hardly 
have  hoped  to  add  the  needed  touch  to  both  lives  when  as 
yet  he  had  not  been  able  to  add  it  to  one.  Robert's  life 
at  Cocumella  was  full  of  sensuous  warmth  and  color.  His 
artistic  instinct  was  each  day  satisfied  and  comforted.  But 
under  all  this  frank  and  wholesome  appeal  to  the  senses, 
there  was  an  inner  and  a  deeper  life  throbbing.  Without 
in  any  way  discrediting  the  beautiful  body  and  heart  of 
the  world,  it  spoke  to  him  of  the  more  abiding  life  of  the 
spirit,  of  the  eternal  undercurrent  that  alone  makes  this 
sensuous,  outer  life  permanently  adorable.  Robert's  in 
stinct  told  him  of  the  gulf  that  lay  between  these  two 
world's,  Pauline's  and  Alicia's,  but  it  was  only  of  late  that 
he  was  becoming  conscious  of  its  high  reality.  Since  he 
had  been  with  Mrs.  Costello  and  Alicia,  this  consciousness 
had  been  growing  at  leaps  and  bounds.  The  lesson  had 

351 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


really  started  in  York  Minster,  and  had  been  continued 
in  that  wonderful  moment  on  the  rim  of  the  garden, 
when  he  had  realized  that  the  magnificent  pageantry  of 
Nature  which  offers  itself  at  sunset  to  the  one  who  with 
seeing  eyes  looks  out  over  the  Bay  of  Naples  is  at  heart 
but  the  symbol  of  a  spiritual  vision  of  still  more  en 
trancing  beauty.  But  Robert  had  not  yet  taken  up  his 
abode  in  this  other  world,  this  world  of  Alicia's.  He  entered 
it,  and  loved  it,  and  then  he  fell  asleep;  and  when  he 
wakened,  he  was  in  the  outer  world  once  more,  feeling  its 
warmth  and  comfort,  never  blind  to  its  allurements,  but 
knowing  —  increasingly  knowing  —  that  his  spirit  was 
not  satisfied,  that  it  was  eternally  hungry.  With  Alicia, 
Robert  was  always  awake.  There  was  no  danger  of  falling 
asleep  and  wakening  outside  the  gate. 

Robert  looked  at  Alicia  once  more.  She  was  busily 
painting.  Her  face  had  lost  its  dream-like  immobility,  but 
none  of  its  distinction.  Now  it  was  all  life  and  tenderness. 
Her  hand  moved  rapidly,  but  not  more  so  than  the  lights 
and  shadows  that  chased  each  other  across  her  face.  Hand 
and  face  were  living  the  same  story.  One  might  almost  say 
that  her  very  body  was  doing  the  same.  It  was  motionless, 
but  tense,  and  expressive  of  the  boundless  energy  that 
welled  up  in  Alicia  from  the  eternal  sources  of  life. 

Robert  had  been  watching  Alicia  with  a  new  fascina 
tion.  Then  suddenly  he  looked  away.  It  seemed  to  him 
that,  quite  unbidden,  he  had  been  peering  through  the  open 
door  of  Paradise.  The  desire  to  be  with  Alicia  always  was 
taking  possession  of  his  soul.  There  came  back  to  him  the 
word  that  he  had  so  unwittingly  used,  —  "  together,"  — 
and  in  it  there  seemed  the  fulfillment  of  every  possible 

352 


ALICIA 


desire.  Swift  as  the  lightning,  Robert  knew  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  what  it  is  truly  to  love.  His  feeling  for 
Pauline  had  been  at  the  flood  both  genuine  and  deep.  But 
it  had  not  been  love.  It  had  been  something  akin  to  fancy, 
the  vain  cry  of  a  man  for  his  mate,  and  it  had  voiced  not 
his  love,  but  his  loneliness.  This  new  feeling  was  so  sacred 
that  Robert  scarcely  dared  to  breathe  it  to  himself.  But 
it  was  triumphant,  unhesitating,  the  great  white  light  of 
an  assured  comradeship. 

The  sketch  was  finished.  Alicia  deftly  tore  it  off  the 
sketching-block,  and  held  it  out  to  Robert.  "  If  you  care 
for  it,"  she  said,  almost  shyly,  "  I  should  like  to  give  it  to 
you.  I  have  tried  to  tell  you  something  in  it." 

Robert's  first  impulse  was  to  protest  that  Alicia  was 
too  generous,  that  he  could  not  think  of  accepting  such  a 
gift ;  but  in  a  moment  a  larger  impulse  came  to  him,  and 
he  accepted  the  sketch  in  the  same  simple  spirit  in  which 
it  had  been  offered.  He  knew  that  hereafter  it  would  be 
one  of  the  treasures  of  his  life,  and  for  such  a  boon  he 
could  only  stammer,  "  Thank  you,  thank  you,  —  very  — 
much" 

Alicia  and  Robert  walked  back  to  the  Albergo  in  silence. 
Alicia  would  not  allow  Robert  to  carry  her  sketching-out 
fit.  It  was  very  light,  she  said,  and  in  any  case  an  artist 
ought  not  to  use  what  she  could  not  carry  for  herself. 
Earlier,  Robert  would  have  insisted,  but  he  was  at  heart 
well-bred,  and  of  late  he  had  been  learning  that  it  is  of 
the  essence  of  good  manners  to  allow  people  to  do  as  they 
please.  Alicia  was  busy  with  her  own  thoughts,  and  Robert 
felt  no  need  of  speech.  Just  now  he  was  in  the  first  whirl 
of  a  great  happiness.  There  was  pathos  in  it,  a  recurrent 

353 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


minor  chord,  for  Robert  knew  very  well  that  Alicia  cared 
nothing  for  him;  but  for  the  present,  at  least,  the  happi 
ness  far  exceeded  the  pain.  Like  a  bird  singing  in  his 
heart,  his  love  banished  all  else.  It  seemed  to  him  a  divine 
thing  that  after  all  his  doubts  and  hesitation,  he  should 
love  in  this  assured,  unquestioning  way.  He  was  not 
conscious  of  any  tragedy  in  not  being  loved. 

When  Robert  got  to  his  room,  he  pinned  Alicia's  sketch 
up  on  the  wall,  in  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  best  pos 
sible  light.  He  drew  up  a  chair  in  front  of  it  and  sat  for 
some  time  studying  the  sketch.  It  had  caught  the  joyous 
air  of  the  morning,  its  freshness  and  sparkle.  Merely  as  a 
sketch,  it  was  good  to  look  upon,  but  the  hidden  meaning, 
the  special  message  to  himself,  Robert  could  not  discover. 

St.  Augustine  came  that  afternoon  to  give  the  accus 
tomed  Italian  lesson.  When  it  was  over,  he  carried  Rob 
ert  off  to  the  little  church  attached  to  the  Albergo.  It 
was  a  special  feast  day,  and  the  vesper  service,  St.  Augus 
tine  said,  would  be  very  fine.  The  church  was  gayly 
decorated,  and  all  the  men  of  the  Tarantella  had  been 
impressed  into  the  musical  service.  Shortly  after  Robert 
and  St.  Augustine  had  taken  their  places,  Mrs.  Costello 
and  Alicia  entered.  Both  ladies  hastily  drew  a  tiny  lace 
handkerchief  over  their  heads,  and  as  they  advanced 
towards  the  high  altar,  bowed  and  crossed  themselves.  St. 
Augustine  observed  their  reverence  and  mistook  them  for 
Catholics.  When  the  service  began,  he  completely  with 
drew  his  attention  from  the  Americans  and  all  external 
things,  and  the  visible  exaltation  in  his  face  made  it  still 
more  akin  to  that  of  the  saint  who  sits,  in  Ary  Shaffer's 
picture,  next  to  the  pallid  Santa  Monica.  Robert's  own 

354 


ALICIA 


heart  was  divided,  sometimes  lost  as  completely  as  St. 
Augustine's  in  the  rare  beauty  of  the  service,  and  some 
times  oblivious  of  everything  save  Alicia.  But  in  either 
worship  he  was  serenely  happy.  When  they  came  out  of 
the  little  church,  it  was  already  dark.  But  St.  Augustine 
would  not  stop  for  dinner.  He  had  duties  in  Sorrento. 
As  he  turned  to  leave,  he  said,  with  his  usual  direct 
ness,  "  Your  young  American  friend  is  very  beautiful.  I 
perceive  that  she  is  also  devout.  She  would  make  an 
acceptable  nun." 

Robert  said  good-night  rather  brusquely,  and  disap 
peared  into  the  Albergo.  He  had  meant  to  walk  part 
way  to  Sorrento  with  St.  Augustine,  but  the  priest's 
remark  jarred  upon  his  happy  mood.  It  seemed  to  invest 
Alicia  with  an  unnecessary  remoteness. 

During  the  succeeding  weeks,  Alicia  and  Robert  went 
out  sketching  several  times.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Costello 
joined  them.  She  did  not  sketch  herself,  but  in  all  matters 
of  art  she  was  an  almost  unerring  critic.  Sometimes  Rob 
ert  sketched,  and  sometimes  he  simply  watched  Alicia,  or 
sat  quietly  chatting  with  Mrs.  Costello.  Alicia  always 
produced  something  admirable.  It  might  be  very  simple, 
but  it  never  failed  to  possess  charm.  Robert's  own  moods 
were  variable,  and  were  reflected  in  his  work.  He  made 
one  sketch  that  both  Mrs.  Costello  and  Alicia  commended 
highly,  and  several  that  they  praised  with  reservations. 
Quite  a  number  were  frankly  and  undeniably  poor.  The 
ladies  dismissed  these  by  saying  that  the  hands  could  not 
work  to  any  purpose  when  the  spirit  was  a  la  dimanche. 

It  was,  however,  a  wonderful  spring  for  Robert.  He 
was  conscious  that  his  spirit  had  gained  in  tranquillity  and 

355 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


repose.  He  was  well  and  happy.  His  love  for  Alicia 
steadied  his  whole  nature.  It  was  his  anchor,  the  one  cer 
tain,  assured  experience  in  the  shifting  tumult  of  his  new 
life.  The  minor  chord  was  always  there,  and  when  Rob 
ert  allowed  himself  to  think  of  the  parting  which  the  last 
week  in  April  was  scheduled  to  bring,  the  minor  chord 
threatened  disaster.  But  he  seldom  allowed  himself  to 
think  of  it.  He  saw  as  much  of  Alicia  and  Mrs.  Costello 
as  their  literary  engagements  permitted.  He  himself 
seemed  to  be  doing  very  little,  and  at  times  felt  heartily 
ashamed  of  his  own  idleness.  But  in  his  heart  he  knew 
that  he  was  gaining  more  of  solid  worth  than  all  his 
feverish  activity  in  Paris  had  been  able  to  yield  him.  In 
addition  to  his  love  for  Alicia,  which  seemed  to  him  each 
day  more  wonderful,  he  rejoiced  in  the  increasing  depth 
and  affection  of  Mrs.  Costello's  friendship.  She  no  longer 
treated  him  as  a  stranger,  but  quite  as  one  of  the  inner 
circle.  She  assumed  as  a  matter  of  course  that  they  would 
see  much  of  Robert  when  they  all  got  back  to  America. 

It  was  an  interesting  quality  in  Mrs.  Costello  that  a 
thought  once  lodged  in  her  brain  never  kept  its  original 
dimensions.  However  large  it  might  have  been  in  the 
beginning,  it  always  grew  to  something  still  larger.  Her 
friends  were  constantly  being  astounded  at  these  expan 
sions.  They  hardly  adjusted  themselves  to  Mrs.  Costello's 
original  ideas  before  they  were  asked  to  reach  out  still 
farther.  Smaller  souls  could  not  keep  up  the  pace,  and 
were  surprised,  when  they  looked  around,  to  find  that  Mrs. 
Costello  was  no  longer  in  sight,  and  that  they  no  longer 
belonged  to  her  circle.  They  complained  that  she  had 
dropped  them,  when  in  reality  they  had  by  their  own 

356 


ALICIA 


sluggishness  dropped  her.  But  larger  souls  found  in  Mrs. 
Costello  an  astonishing  tonic,  and  counted  it  a  high  privi 
lege  so  to  live  that  they  might  keep  her  in  sight. 

Robert  was  meeting  this  expansiveness  in  Mrs.  Costel- 
lo's  thought  world.  Starting  with  the  friendly  suggestion 
that  she  must  see  much  of  Robert  in  Boston  —  which 
Robert  felt  to  be  a  great  and  undeserved  favor  —  Mrs. 
Costello's  thought  expanded  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks 
into  the  plan  that  Robert  must  make  his  home  with  her 
while  he  was  deciding  upon  a  profession.  Robert's  breath 
was  quite  taken  away  at  the  thought  of  such  generous 
hospitality.  He  had  not  recovered  from  his  surprise  be 
fore  Mrs.  Costello  had  gone  a  step  farther,  and  had  passed 
on  to  the  assumption  that  Robert  had  definitely  accepted 
her  invitation,  and  if  he  found  her  household  agreeable, 
might  even  remain  while  he  was  following  his  professional 
studies.  This  lengthening  vista  left  Robert  fairly  gasping. 
He  knew  that  Mrs.  Costello  was  absolutely  sincere  in  her 
wonderful  invitation,  and  he  also  knew  that  the  mere  idea 
of  having  such  a  home  to  go  to  made  him  fairly  light 
headed.  But  it  seemed  too  big  an  invitation  to  be  really 
true,  and  he  could  not  quite  bring  himself  to  consider  it 
seriously. 

Meanwhile  the  weeks  sped  on,  and  April  approached 
its  close.  Mrs.  Costello  and  Alicia  were  going  to  London 
for  the  season,  and  afterwards  were  to  make  a  round  of 
visits  at  various  English  country-houses.  They  were  to  go 
by  boat  from  Naples,  as  Mrs.  Costello  wanted  the  several 
quiet  days  at  sea  before  the  turmoil  of  London.  Robert 
could  hardly  bring  himself  to  think  of  his  own  plans.  The 
loneliness  of  them  appalled  him.  He  was  to  accompany 

357 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


the  ladies  to  Naples,  and  then  betake  himself  to  Florence 
for  a  month.  Afterwards,  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  he 
would  spend  the  summer  among  the  Italian  lakes  and  in 
Switzerland,  and  then  by  some  indefinite  route  turn  up  in 
Boston  late  in  September.  There  was  some  chance  that 
Donald  would  be  going  home  then,  and  that  they  might 
cross  together. 

Robert  bore  himself  very  well  during  the  last  days  at 
Cocumella,  —  days  so  full  of  beauty  that  they  seemed  al 
most  unreal.  When  the  Nixe  rounded  the  Capo  di  Sor 
rento,  and  their  little  boat  put  out  across  the  blue  waters, 
there  was  a  distinct  lump  in  Robert's  throat.  The  Nixe's 
parting  whistle  no  longer  sounded  friendly.  There  was 
something  threatening  and  cruel  about  it,  for  she  was 
carrying  him  away  from  a  place  where  he  had  been  very 
happy. 

"  It  was  like  a  quiet  dream,  was  it  not  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Costello.  "  Quite  unlike  one's  life  anywhere  else.  I  think 
we  ought  to  give  it  a  special  name.  What  shall  we  call  it, 
Mr.  Pendexter,  our  life  at  Cocumella  ?  " 

"I  shall  think  of  it  as  our  Italian  parenthesis,"  an 
swered  Robert,  promptly. 

"  Excellent,"  cried  Mrs.  Costello.  "  That 's  what  it  shall 
be,  our  Italian  parenthesis ;  and  I  suppose  we  must  say 
that  its  value,  like  that  of  all  other  parentheses,  depends 
upon  what  goes  before  and  what  comes  after." 

"  Yes,  in  the  end,"  suggested  Alicia.  "  But  it  was  good 
just  in  and  for  itself,  non  e  vero  ?  " 

Both  Mrs.  Costello  and  Robert  assented,  and  the  rest 
of  the  little  voyage  was  made  for  the  most  part  in  silence. 

It  was  a  couple  of  days  before  the  steamer  sailed  for 
358 


ALICIA 


London.  Robert  was  cheerful  and  helpful,  ready  to  wan 
der  with  the  ladies  in  the  wonderful  Museum  or  drive 
with  them  along  the  coast,  or  even  shop  with  them  in  the 
excitable  Via  Roma.  Mrs.  Costello  declared  that  Robert 
was  invaluable,  and  that  they  should  hardly  know  how  to 
get  on  without  him. 

But  when  the  parting  actually  came,  and  Robert  stood 
on  the  pier  bravely  smiling  and  waving  his  handkerchief 
as  the  steamer  slowly  got  under  way,  there  came  into  his 
eyes,  in  spite  of  him,  a  look  of  such  mortal  pain  that 
Alicia  knew  what  before  she  had  only  unwillingly  guessed. 


CHAPTER   XIX 
ROBERT  CHOOSES  A  PROFESSION 

IT  is  very  beautiful  at  Bolton  in  late  September.  At 
this  season,  there  is  still  the  air  of  full  maturity  and  not 
yet  the  air  of  decay.  Robert  went  out  to  Bolton  directly 
from  his  steamer,  but  he  went  without  any  great  enthu 
siasm.  Since  it  stood  to  him  as  home,  he  had  tried  to  have 
a  dutiful  regard  for  it.  But  as  he  looked  back  upon  it 
from  the  vantage-ground  of  Europe,  he  saw  that  the  life 
at  Bolton  had  been  starved  and  ugly.  He  had  been  fond 
of  his  cousins  in  an  unemotional  way,  but  not  fond  enough 
of  them  to  find  separation  painful. 

As  soon  as  Robert  arrived  at  the  old  farmhouse, 
however,  he  felt  that  a  great  change  had  swept  over  it. 
Bolton,  with  Aunt  Matilda  Pendexter  removed,  was  an 
entirely  different  place.  Robert  remembered  vaguely  that 
the  old  house  had  good  lines,  and  was  full  of  possibilities. 
But  it  had  seemed  only  half  dignified  and  never  beauti 
ful.  In  spite  of  the  enthusiasm  of  Priscilla's  letters  and 
Stephen's  warm  praise,  Robert  was  quite  unprepared  for 
the  change.  It  amounted  in  fact  to  a  transformation.  The 
entrance  porch,  designed  for  the  love  of  it  by  Stephen's 
young  architectural  friend,  was  a  great  success.  The  fresh 
paint,  the  opened  shutters  with  the  pretty  muslin  curtains 
back  of  the  immaculate  windows,  the  improved  shrubbery, 
all  combined  to  give  the  place  an  air  of  assured  distinc 
tion.  Inside  the  house,  the  change  was  no  less  marked. 
Where  Robert  remembered  in  the  past  musty  smells  and 

360 


ROBERT  CHOOSES   A  PROFESSION 

an  all-pervading  dinginess,  he  now  found  fresh  air  and 
sunshine.  The  new  furnishings,  though  simple  and  inex 
pensive,  showed  a  surprising  amount  of  taste. 

The  girls  had  taken  Robert  all  over  the  house  within 
ten  minutes  of  his  arrival.  His  exclamations  of  genuine 
admiration  and  amazement  gave  them  keen  delight.  But 
the  best  change  of  all  was  in  the  girls  themselves.  Under 
the  more  genial  regime  of  the  past  year,  all  three  of  them 
had  fairly  blossomed.  They  had  given  over  the  idea  of 
conciliating  Mrs.  Perkins,  and  allowed  her  to  be  audibly 
scandalized.  The  girls  looked  better,  they  were  dressed 
distinctly  better,  and  they  seemed  happy.  Robert  had  ex 
pected  all  this  in  Priscilla,  —  Stephen's  devotion  was  quite 
enough  to  account  for  it,  —  but  he  had  not  imagined  that 
the  mere  absence  of  daily  petty  tyranny  on  the  part  of  a 
domineering  old  woman,  and  the  simple  right  to  do  as  they 
pleased  in  the  small  affairs  of  life,  could  have  worked  such 
change  in  Martha  and  Mattie. 

Robert  was  much  touched,  too,  by  the  warmth  of  his 
own  reception.  He  felt  that  he  deserved  little  of  the  girls. 
He  had  been  too  ill  when  he  went  away  to  come  out  and 
tell  them  good-by.  He  had  sent  them  very  infrequent  let 
ters  from  Europe.  He  had  gobbled  up  the  major  part  of 
their  aunt's  property.  This  had  been  involuntary,  it  is 
true,  and  because  his  aunt  had  so  willed,  but  in  the  re 
trospect  it  seemed  to  Robert  scarcely  less  hateful  than  if 
it  had  been  of  his  own  volition.  He  had  given  them  small 
share  in  his  thoughts  and  plans.  But  the  girls  were  sub 
limely  unconscious  of  all  this.  Their  one  thought  was 
that  Robert  was  well  again,  and  that  he  was  once  more 
at  home.  It  was  this  unconsciousness  of  any  neglect  or 

361 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


wrong-doing  that  touched  Robert  even  more  keenly  than 
their  hearty  welcome. 

Every  direction  that  Robert  turned,  he  found  some 
provision  for  his  comfort.  Under  Aunt  Matilda,  his  room 
had  always  been  the  small  one  over  the  kitchen.  He  had 
hated  it  even  as  a  boy.  He  could  not  know  that  the  poor 
lady  had  given  it  to  him  because  it  was  always  warm  of 
a  morning.  Being  herself  quite  insensible  to  beauty,  she 
could  not  guess  that  the  dingy  ugliness  of  the  little  room 
had  oppressed  a  growing  boy  and  weighed  even  more  heav 
ily  upon  the  man.  Aunt  Matilda  would  have  been  shocked 
at  the  bare  thought  of  putting  Robert  in  the  big  spare 
room  over  the  parlor  when  he  came  up  from  Boston  to 
spend  an  occasional  Sunday  or  holiday,  but  she  would 
nevertheless  have  done  it,  grimly  and  ungraciously  enough, 
perhaps,  but  still  have  done  it,  could  she  have  known.  It 
is  one  of  the  little  tragedies  of  daily  life  that  people  can 
only  see  what  they  can  see. 

Now,  however,  Robert  was  taken  to  the  spare  room 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  when  he  laughingly  pro 
tested,  he  was  given  to  understand  that  the  room  had  been 
renovated  especially  in  his  honor.  Mattie  had  already 
christened  it  the  modern  fatted  calf,  a  little  joke  that  Mrs. 
Perkins  failed  to  appreciate. 

Stephen  had  met  Robert  at  the  steamer  and  had  brought 
him  out  to  Bolton,  —  the  same  Stephen  as  of  old,  a  trifle 
balder,  a  trifle  stouter,  than  the  year  before,  but  as  de 
lightfully  friendly,  and  radiating  happiness  and  goodwill 
from  every  pore.  Donald  was  still  in  Berlin,  studying  Ger 
man  literature  and  the  grand  opera.  He  had  gone  in  for 
a  second  year  of  Europe.  Robert  was  curious  to  know  how 

362 


EGBERT  CHOOSES   A   PROFESSION 

he  got  it.  Stephen  laughed,  and  said  in  his  old  confidential 
way,  "  Well,  if  you  must  know,  the  poet  got  it  the  way  he 
gets  most  things,  —  he  just  reached  out  and  took  it !  And 
by  Jove,  it 's  not  a  half  bad  way  of  doing,  either.  It 's  the 
way  I  got  you  for  a  cousin,  little  Pen." 

Robert  pressed  his  hand  and  answered  very  genuinely, 
"  Dear  Stephen,  it  is  so  good  to  be  with  you  again  !  " 

Had  it  not  been  for  Stephen,  Robert  would  have  felt 
a  little  lonely.  Stephen  managed  to  get  out  to  Bolton  a 
surprising  number  of  times,  for  he  was  only  too  glad  of 
an  excuse  for  such  holiday-making,  yet  in  spite  of  all  this 
kindness,  Robert  had  his  difficult  moments.  The  happiness 
of  loving  Alicia  was  always  his,  but  as  this  became  an 
accustomed  and  assured  possession,  he  grew  increasingly 
conscious  of  the  pain  of  separation.  The  hopelessness  of 
his  love  was  also  beginning  to  press  in  upon  him.  At  first 
he  had  asked  only  the  boon  of  loving,  but  now  he  asked 
the  greater  boon  of  being  loved.  Seeing  Stephen  and  Pris- 
cilla  together  nearly  every  day  added  nothing  to  Robert's 
distress.  Sweet  and  wholesome  as  their  courtship  was,  and 
so  frankly  in  evidence  every  minute  they  were  together, 
it  never  occurred  to  Robert  to  compare  this  pretty  love- 
making  with  his  own  feeling  for  Alicia.  Nor  did  it  ever 
occur  to  him  to  compare  Alicia  to  any  other  woman.  He 
admitted  that  Mrs.  Costello  belonged  in  the  same  class, 
but  Alicia  the  individual  stood  quite  alone,  a  goddess  whose 
devout  worshiper  Robert  unfalteringly  was. 

Robert  was  often  restless  and  ill  at  ease,  but  he  hid 
it  so  completely  that  his  cousins  were  charmed  with  his 
manners  and  talk.  He  was  glad  of  their  frank  approval, 
even  though  he  knew  that  they  were  easily  pleased.  He 

363 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


had  come  home  meaning  to  be  very  nice  to  them,  and  the 
task  was  so  much  easier  than  he  had  pictured  it  that  his 
spirits  had  undergone  a  certain  buoyancy.  One  morning 
in  the  middle  of  his  second  week  at  Bolton,  the  mail 
brought  a  welcome  letter  from  Mrs.  Costello.  Robert  knew 
that  she  was  again  in  America,  and  that  she  had  been 
spending  some  time  with  friends  in  Maine.  Now,  however, 
she  wrote  that  she  was  once  more  established  in  Boston, 
and  begged  that  Robert  would  dine  with  her  the  following 
evening  and  stop  overnight.  Robert  was  delighted  to 
accept  the  invitation,  and  went  in  town  very  promptly  the 
following  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Costello's  house  is  sufficiently  in  the  suburbs  to 
have  a  garden  of  its  own.  It  stands  with  its  back  to  the 
street,  a  little  uncivilly,  perhaps,  but  when  one  follows  the 
winding  path  around  the  house,  and  comes  upon  the  open 
door  facing  the  garden  and  the  sun,  one  feels  that  the 
arrangement  is  more  than  justified,  and  one  marvels  that 
every  other  householder  has  not  essayed  a  similar  excel 
lence.  Robert  had  never  been  there  before.  Dinner  was 
to  be  at  six,  but  Mrs.  Costello  had  asked  that  he  would 
come  early.  It  was  still  full  daylight  when  he  presented 
himself.  His  heart  was  beating  painfully.  He  did  not  know 
whether  he  should  see  Alicia  or  not,  but  at  any  rate  he 
would  have  news  of  her,  and  he  would  be  breathing  again 
the  high  atmosphere  that  had  made  Cocumella  an  earthly 
paradise.  As  soon  as  he  entered  the  narrow  gateway  he 
felt  that,  like  the  house  itself,  he  had  turned  his  back  upon 
the  commonplace,  and  once  more  stood  upon  enchanted 
ground.  The  door  was  wide  open.  Robert  knew  that  his 
hostess  would  like  him  to  enter  without  knock  or  bell- 

364 


ROBERT  CHOOSES   A  PROFESSION 

stroke  and  announce  himself.  But  something  of  the  old 
conventionality  restrained  him,  and  instead,  he  pressed 
the  electric  button.  In  a  moment  he  heard  the  unmis 
takable  voice  with  its  high-pitched  music.  "  Never  mind, 
Katie,  I  will  go  to  the  door.  I  think  it  must  be  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter." 

When  Mrs.  Costello  reached  the  door,  Robert  flushed 
with  pleasure.  "  Mrs.  Costello  !  "  he  cried,  as  if  that  one 
word  covered  all  possible  salutation. 

Mrs.  Costello  held  out  her  hand.  "  Welcome,  dear  friend," 
she  said,  smiling.  Then  she  covered  his  big  hand  with  her 
two  small  ones,  and  made  him  feel  how  very  welcome  he 
was.  They  were  standing  in  a  large  vestibule  that  opened 
directly  on  the  level  of  the  garden.  "Put  your  suit-case 
down  here,"  Mrs.  Costello  continued,  "  and  Katie  will  take 
it  up  to  your  room.  It  will  be  quite  safe  to  hang  your 
coat  and  hat  here  on  the  rack.  We  seem  quite  exposed, 
with  our  open  door,  but  really  we  are  well  protected." 

Mrs.  Costello  led  the  way  up  a  short  stairway  that  faced 
the  entrance,  and  waited  for  Robert  on  the  small  landing 
that  served  in  lieu  of  a  hall.  Then  she  turned  into  the  big 
drawing-room  on  the  left,  and  once  more  waited  until 
Robert  stood  alongside  of  her.  It  was  a  little  thing,  this 
waiting  for  him  at  each  turn,  but  it  expressed  a  friendli 
ness  and  welcome  that  no  mere  words  could  have  done. 

When  Robert  got  well  inside  the  drawing-room,  he 
paused  and  looked  around  him.  "  How  beautiful  it  is  !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  never  been  in  such  a  beautiful 
room  before." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  care  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  When  my  parents  were  building  the  house,  they  allowed 

365 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


me  the  privilege  of  planning  it,  and  so  I  ain  always  pleased 
when  my  friends  care  for  it." 

It  was  a  long  room,  at  least  forty  feet  long,  undivided 
except  by  the  heavy  carved  beam  in  the  ceiling,  which  sug 
gested  rather  than  insisted  upon  a  division.  In  spite  of 
its  unbroken  length,  the  room  was  not  monotonous,  for  by 
a  very  clever  arrangement,  it  was  of  unequal  width.  In 
the  portion  where  Mrs.  Costello  and  Robert  were  standing, 
the  room  extended  for  several  feet  into  the  side  garden. 
In  the  other  portion,  where  the  large  fireplace  was,  the 
room  extended  several  feet  to  the  right,  and  so  joined  the 
large  dining-room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house.  It 
was  as  if  two  squares  had  been  placed  side  by  side,  and 
then,  to  relieve  the  monotony,  had  been  shoved  so  that  the 
common  sides  no  longer  coincided.  It  made  a  unique  room, 
and  one  full  of  interest.  The  whole  was  finished  in  teak- 
wood,  elaborately  carved  and  carefully  polished. 

"  Where  did  you  get  such  wonderful  carving  ?  "  asked 
Robert,  going  up  to  it  and  running  his  long  fingers  appre 
ciatively  over  the  tracery,  as  if  to  see  it  by  touch  as  well 
as  by  sight. 

"  It  is  wonderful,  is  it  not?  It  was  done  for  me  in  India, 
and  in  a  surprisingly  short  space  of  time.  The  designs 
were  sent  over  by  the  architect  in  the  spring,  and  in  the 
autumn  the  work  was  all  here  and  ready  to  be  put  in 
place." 

Mrs.  Costello  moved  towards  the  fireplace,  so  that  Rob 
ert  might  see  the  rest  of  the  room.  He  followed  her  very 
slowly,  entranced  not  only  with  the  carving,  but  also  with 
the  subtle  proportions  of  the  room. 

"This  is  the  dining-room,"  said  Mrs.  Costello,  leading 
366 


EGBERT  CHOOSES  A  PROFESSION 

the  way  through  the  wide  folding  doors.  It  was  separated 
from  the  drawing-room  by  a  wooden  screen,  partly  solid 
and  partly  delicate  lattice  work  filled  in  with  glass.  Cur 
tains  of  soft  green  silk  hung  back  of  the  glass  and  gave 
a  suggestion  of  shrubbery.  From  the  dining-room  Mrs. 
Costello  led  the  way  through  another  folding-door  into  a 
study  which  faced  south  on  the  garden. 

Robert  paused  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction. 
"It  is  as  beautiful  as  Italy ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  You  know  that  my  husband  was  an  Italian.  Everything 
in  this  room  came  from  Italy.  It  was  Leon  Costello's 
study."  Mrs.  Costello  nearly  always  spoke  of  her  husband 
by  his  full  name.  It  seemed  the  better  to  voice  her  own 
deep  appreciation  of  him  as  an  artist.  By  this  time  she 
and  Robert  had  come  out  again  on  the  landing  and  the 
circuit  was  complete.  "  You  see  we  have  no  hall.  I  deliber 
ately  sacrificed  it,  so  that  we  might  have  this  unbroken 
sweep  of  rooms.  You  don't  think  I  did  wrong,  do  you?  " 

Robert  was  amused  at  this  deference  to  his  opinion 
about  a  thing  that  had  been  done  so  many  years  before, 
but  the  appeal  was  genuine,  and  he  answered  with  equal 
earnestness,  "  I  think  that  you  could  not  possibly  have 
done  better.  It  was  a  stroke  of  genius !  " 

"  Oh,  hardly  that,"  said  Mrs.  Costello.  "  And  now  I 
must  send  you  to  your  room,  or  you  '11  not  be  dressed  for 
dinner  in  time.  Katie  will  show  you  up,  and  you  must  tell 
her  if  there 's  anything  wanting." 

Robert  followed  the  maid  upstairs,  but  he  went  very 
slowly,  for  he  wanted  to  examine  every  detail  of  this  unique 
house.  A  half -flight  brought  him  to  a  landing  extending 

367 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


over  the  vestibule  and  lighted  by  a  cheery  little  bay  win 
dow  above  the  front  door.  In  reality,  the  landing  was  a 
small  apartment  in  itself.  It  looked  down  into  the  draw 
ing-room  on  one  side,  and  through  a  latticed  window  on  the 
other  side  into  the  Italian  study. 

Mrs.  Costello  called  up  from  the  drawing-room, "  That's 
our  box  of  honor,  you  see,  when  we  have  music  down  here." 

And  Robert  answered  gayly,  "  I  should  like  a  seat  in 
the  front  row,  please." 

Another  half-flight  brought  him  to  the  hallway  in  the 
second  floor,  and  a  few  steps  more  to  his  own  large, 
sunny  room  overlooking  the  garden.  A  little  wood  fire 
crackled  on  the  hearth ;  a  bunch  of  flowers  stood  on  the 
table ;  stationery  and  stamps  were  conveniently  grouped 
on  the  open  desk ;  a  bath  robe  was  thrown  over  the  foot  of 
the  bed ;  at  every  turn  Robert  met  some  fresh  expression 
of  welcome.  He  had  been  living  so  long  in  the  impersonal 
life  of  hotels  and  pensions,  with  all  its  indifference  and 
half  comfort,  that  he  was  much  touched,  as  he  had  been 
at  Bolton,  by  this  intimate  concern  for  his  welfare. 

Katie  was  still  standing  at  the  door.  "  If  you  please, 
sir,"  she  said,  when  Robert  finally  turned  around,  "  Mrs. 
Costello  wanted  me  to  tell  you  that  the  bathroom  at  the  end 
of  the  hall  is  for  you.  I  '11  show  it  to  you,  sir,  if  you  like." 

As  Robert  was  returning  from  this  tour  of  inspection, 
he  met  Mrs.  Costello  at  the  stairs. 

"You  will  think  that  I  was  not  a  very  good  architect," 
she  said,  "  to  put  the  bathrooms  so  far  from  the  bedrooms. 
But  I  had  to  yield  that  point.  A  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
you  know,  it  was  thought  that  bathrooms  must  be  as  near 
the  kitchen  range  as  possible,  so  as  to  save  piping.  Appar- 

368 


ROBERT  CHOOSES   A  PROFESSION 


ently,  they  did  not  reflect  that  you  lay  pipes  once  in  many 
years,  while  you  draw  the  water  every  day.  It  was  a  stupid 
economy,  but  I  suppose  we  are  doing  just  as  dull  things 
to-day,  only  in  some  other  direction.  Do  let  Katie  know  if 
you  need  anything." 

Mrs.  Costello  went  on  to  her  own  apartments  in  the 
third  floor,  and  Robert  quickly  dressed  for  dinner.  It  was 
not  yet  six,  so  he  drew  an  armchair  up  before  the  fire, 
and  sat  there  enjoying  its  warmth  and  comfort.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  house  before,  he  had  not  yet  taken  a 
meal  there,  but  already  he  felt  at  home  as  he  had  never 
felt  at  home  anywhere  else. 

When  Robert  went  downstairs,  darkness  had  fallen, 
and  the  big  drawing-room  was  lighted  up,  not  brilliantly, 
but  just  enough  to  keep  it  from  being  gloomy  and  to  allow 
the  firelight  to  show  to  advantage. 

Mrs.  Costello  rose  as  Robert  entered,  and  once  more 
took  his  hand.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  here,  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter,"  she  said,  in  her  silvery,  high-pitched  voice.  "  I 
do  hope  that  you  will  feel  quite  at  home."  Robert  pro 
tested  that  he  felt  surprisingly  at  home.  "  We  will  have 
dinner  directly,  as  soon  as  my  friend,  Mrs.  Mason,  comes 
down.  Won't  you  take  that  armchair  at  the  side  of  the 
fireplace.  I  think  we  shall  have  to  call  that  your  chair." 

It  was  a  curious  old  chair,  covered  with  leather  and  very 
comfortable.  Robert  sank  into  it  contentedly,  and  chatted 
with  Mrs.  Costello  quite  as  if  the  Italian  parenthesis  had 
ended  but  yesterday.  In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Mason  joined 
them.  Robert  easily  guessed  that  she  was  Mrs.  Costello's 
companion  and  secretary.  Like  Mrs.  Costello,  she  was  in 
evening  dress.  She  greeted  them  both  with  a  brilliant 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


smile.  Mrs.  Costello  treated  Mrs.  Mason  with  the  same 
thoughtful  courtesy  that  she  had  shown  to  Robert. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  dinner-party.  The  food  was  very 
simple,  and  was  served  quite  faultlessly.  The  room  itself 
was  beautiful,  and  the  table  prettily  lighted  with  four 
shaded  wax  candles.  The  atmosphere  was  one  in  which 
Robert  felt  perfectly  at  home.  Had  Alicia  been  there,  he 
would  have  considered  himself  entirely  happy.  As  yet 
Mrs.  Costello  had  not  spoken  of  her.  Robert  was  keenly 
anxious  for  news,  but  some  stubborn  reticence  made  it  diffi 
cult  for  him  to  mention  Alicia. 

After  dinner,  Robert  asked  if  he  might  once  more  make 
the  tour  of  the  rooms,  as  he  would  like  to  see  them  at 
night.  Mrs.  Costello  gladly  joined  him.  For  some  reason 
she  evidently  wanted  him  to  take  special  notice  of  the 
house.  She  listened  to  all  his  comments  with  an  attention 
which  he  hardly  felt  they  deserved.  This  second  tour  deep 
ened  Robert's  earlier  impressions,  and  disclosed  a  number 
of  features  which  were  missed  before.  Behind  the  arm 
chair  that  Mrs.  Costello  had  designated  as  his  there  was  a 
small  curtained  opening.  The  curtain  was  now  half  drawn, 
and  a  soft,  warm  light  shone  into  the  drawing-room.  Rob 
ert  asked  if  he  might  enter.  He  found  himself  in  a  tiny 
octagonal  chapel.  An  ancient  prie-dieu  stood  in  the  centre. 
On  the  wall  opposite  was  a  Lucca  della  Robbia  Mother 
and  Child.  To  one  side  there  stood  a  carved  Calvary.  Set 
into  the  wall  over  the  tiny  fireplace  was  a  Doriatello  Ma 
donna  in  ivory  plaster.  On  a  pedestal  in  one  of  the  angles 
rested  a  delicate  reproduction  of  the  great  bronze  Buddha 
at  Kamakura.  On  the  walls  were  pictures  of  the  Kali 
Temple  on  the  Ganges  above  Calcutta,  and  of  the  sacred 

370 


EGBERT  CHOOSES  A  PROFESSION 

Buddhist  sanctuary  at  Buddh-Gaya.  Robert  noticed  that 
the  heavy  teak-wood  book-shelf  contained  not  only  the 
Jewish  and  Christian  Scriptures,  the  Imitation  and  the 
Mirror  of  Perfection,  but  also  the  Bhagavad-Gita,  the  Ko 
ran,  and  the  Laws  of  Confucius.  An  ancient  silver  lamp, 
evidently  from  some  Italian  church,  hung  from  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  cast  the  warm  reddish  glow  over  the 
chapel  that  had  first  attracted  Robert's  attention. 

Robert  had  been  brought  up  in  a  church  which  dis 
penses  with  symbols.  Such  religious  life  as  he  had  known 
had  been  of  a  severely  intellectual  type.  He  had  never  ac 
quired  the  habit  of  regular  prayer.  He  prayed,  it  is  true, 
more  frequently,  perhaps,  than  most  men  pray,  but  without 
any  outer  sign.  He  seldom  knelt.  He  prayed  as  he  walked 
the  streets,  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  —  most  of  all,  at  night  as 
he  lay  in  bed,  tossed  about  by  all  the  storms  of  hesitation 
and  uncertainty.  Sometimes  he  had  doubted  whether  there 
be  a  God,  for  he  had  prayed  so  entreatingly  for  light,  and 
apparently  the  light  had  not  come.  But  this  little  chapel 
affected  him  strangely.  It  was  a  visible  invitation  to  prayer. 
Robert  would  have  liked  to  kneel  at  the  ancient  prie-dieu 
and  pray  for  Alicia,  not  indeed  that  she  might  be  his,  but 
solely  that  it  might  be  well  with  her,  and  always  well  with 
her.  He  was  too  shy  to  kneel  before  Mrs.  Costello,  and 
contented  himself  with  breathing  such  a  prayer.  Then  he 
turned  to  Mrs.  Costello  and  asked,  "  Is  this  gem  your  pri 
vate  oratory?" 

"  In  a  sense  yes,  since  I  sometimes  use  it.  But  in  reality 
it  belongs  more  to  Miss  Frothingham  than  to  me.  She 
perhaps  cares  more  than  I  do  for  these  symbols  of  faith. 
My  own  oratory  is  upstairs.  It  is  much  larger  and  simpler 

371 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


than  this.  In  fact,  it  is  the  room  in  which  I  live.  Some  time 
you  shall  see  it." 

It  was  Alicia's  chapel  in  which  he  had  wanted  to  pray 
for  her!  Suddenly  Robert  remembered  the  unwelcome 
words  of  St.  Augustine, —  "  I  perceive  that  she  is  also  de 
vout.  She  would  make  an  acceptable  nun," —  and  turned 
to  Mrs.  Costello  almost  in  alarm.  "  Is  Miss  Frothingham 
a  Catholic?  "he  asked. 

"  She  is  not  a  member  of  that  church,"  Mrs.  Costello 
answered.  "  Like  myself,  she  is  a  world-religionist,  a  wor 
shiper  of  the  Spirit.  She  is  a  Christian,  but  her  Christian 
ity  is  racial  rather  than  specific.  She  is  both  Catholic 
and  Protestant.  In  the  far  East,  she  is  Hindu,  Buddhist, 
Shintoist,  Mahometan.  We  believe,  you  see,  that  religion 
is  many  in  form,  but  one  in  substance.  To  us  it  means 
the  outreaching  of  the  human  spirit  towards  the  Divine 
Spirit.  Alicia  is  a  beautiful  soul;  she  has  traveled  far 
on  the  Path." 

"Does  Miss  Frothingham  soon  return  to  America?" 
asked  Robert,  as  they  left  the  chapel  and  moved  down  the 
long  drawing-room. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  Mrs.  Costello  answered.  "  She  is  still 
in  England,  and  it  seems  difficult  for  her  to  get  away. 
She  is  much  sought  after,  you  know,  and  one  invitation 
succeeds  another.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  send  her  some 
wax  to  stuff  in  her  ears.  But  there  is  a  chance  that  she 
may  sail  about  the  first  of  the  month." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  found  them 
selves  in  front  of  a  marble  portrait-bust  that  stood  near  the 
grand  piano.  Robert  examined  it  critically.  It  was  a  noble 
face,  crowned  with  abundant,  ungovernable  hair.  The  throat 

372 


ROBERT  CHOOSES   A  PROFESSION 

was  strong  and  bare.  The  head  rose  from  out  the  folds  of 
a  very  simple  drapery  that  stretched  from  shoulder  to 
shoulder. 

"  I  think  I  know  whose  it  is,"  said  Robert,  gently. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Leon  Costello,  and  an  excellent  likeness.'* 

"  Is  it  something  new  ?  "  Robert  asked,  running  his  long 
fingers  over  the  modeling  of  the  throat,  as  he  had  done 
earlier  in  the  afternoon  over  the  wooden  traceries. 

Mrs.  Costello  winced  inwardly,  for  she  never  allowed 
any  one  but  herself  to  touch  the  bust.  "  No,"  she  answered. 
"Like  everything  else  in  the  house,  it  is  quite  old,  at  least 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  But  why  did  you  ask,  —  is  it  the 
still  fresh  tone  of  the  marble  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  that  in  part,"  said  Robert.  "  But  still  more, 
I  think,  because  it  does  n't  look  old-fashioned.  You  don't 
mind  my  saying  that,  do  you?  It  looks  as  if  it  might  have 
been  made  yesterday." 

Mrs.  Costello  gave  Robert  one  of  her  rarest  smiles.  "  I 
am  delighted  to  have  you  say  it.  That  was  the  effect  I 
wanted  to  produce." 

"  Did  you  make  the  bust  yourself?  "  asked  Robert,  in 
astonishment. 

"  No,  indeed.  I  only  posed  Leon  Costello.  When  you 
come  to  know  me  better,  dear  Mr.  Pendexter,  you  will  find 
out  that  I  really  do  nothing  at  all  myself.  I  am  one  of 
those  idle,  non-executive  people,  who  say  how  it  ought  to 
be  done,  but  who  let  other  people  do  all  the  work!" 

"I  think  yours  is  the  larger  service,"  said  Robert.  "It 
is  harder  to  know  what  to  do  than  it  is  to  do  it." 

"  Sometimes,  perhaps,"  admitted  Mrs.  Costello.  "  But  I 
am  wondering  if  you  can  go  a  step  farther  still,  and  tell 

373 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


me  why  this  bust  of  Leon  Costello  does  not  look  old-fash 
ioned,  and  why  I  may  venture  to  hope  that  it  never  will?" 
Mrs.  Costello  watched  Robert  expectantly,  and  seemed  to 
attach  importance  to  his  answer. 

Robert  looked  at  the  bust  carefully  and  answered  with 
much  confidence,  "  Certainly  I  can  tell  you.  It  is  because 
there's  nothing  either  fashionable  or  unfashionable  about 
bare  throats  and  simple  drapery.  If  you  had  shown  any 
article  of  clothing,  a  coat  or  waistcoat  or  necktie,  it  would 
have  had  to  be  of  the  period,  and  as  the  period  passes,  the 
things  sooner  or  later  would  have  looked  poky  and  out  of 
date." 

Mrs.  Costello  smiled  pleasantly.  "  That  was  quite  my 
own  analysis.  It  is  astonishing  that  so  obvious  a  principle 
is  not  more  frequently  followed,  —  I  mean  in  buildings  and 
books  as  well  as  in  pictures  and  busts.  And  now  shall  we 
go  and  sit  by  the  fire?  Would  you  mind  telling  Katie  to 
bring  a  little  fresh  kindling?" 

When  Robert  returned,  he  found  Mrs.  Costello  settled 
in  a  low  chair  at  one  side  of  the  fireplace  and  busy  with 
some  knitting.  Robert  dropped  easily  into  the  leather  chair 
on  the  opposite  side. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  knitting,  will  you?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Costello.  "  I  always  like  to  have  some  occupation  for  my 
hands  when  I  am  sitting  still.  We  can  chat  for  a  while, 
and  then  perhaps  later  you  or  Mrs.  Mason  will  read  aloud 
for  a  few  minutes.  But  first  I  must  ask  you  how  you  like 
your  room? " 

Robert  answered  that  he  liked  it  extremely,  and  added 
that  no  one  could  help  liking  it. 

"  It  used  to  be  my  mother's  room,  and  always  seemed 
374 


EGBERT  CHOOSES   A  PROFESSION 

to  me  especially  bright  and  attractive.  I  am  so  glad  that 
you  like  it,  for  that  is  the  room  I  am  going  to  give  you 
when  you  come  to  stay  with  us.  You  need  not  be  afraid  to 
come,  for  we  will  let  you  much  alone.  I  know  what  it  is  to 
be  a  worker,  and  I  feel  always  that  I  want  to  protect  them 
from  interruptions.  I  shall  make  over  the  Italian  room  to 
you  for  a  study,  —  I  do  my  own  work  upstairs.  Katie  can 
take  your  breakfast-tray  in  there  of  a  morning,  and  then 
you  need  n't  see  any  of  the  household  until  luncheon.  The 
bedroom  needs  redecorating.  It  never  quite  suited  me. 
The  men  are  coming  to-morrow  to  do  it  over.  If  you  have 
any  preference  in  the  way  of  a  color  scheme,  I  should  be  so 
glad  to  follow  it."  Mrs.  Costello  made  this  extraordinary 
offer  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  quite  as  one  might  ask 
whether  a  guest  would  have  his  eggs  hard  or  soft. 

Robert  looked  at  Mrs.  Costello  in  a  dazed,  incredulous 
way.  He  had  quite  forgotten  until  that  moment  that  at 
Cocumella  Mrs.  Costello  had  asked  him  to  be  her  guest. 
He  had  never  doubted  her  sincerity,  but  the  invitation  had 
seemed  too  big  even  to  consider.  Now  he  had  to  face  it 
squarely.  Of  his  desire  in  the  matter,  he  had  not  the  slight 
est  doubt.  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  he  would  like  to 
become  a  member  of  this  enchanted  household.  But  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  accept  so  much.  His  conscience 
rebelled  at  the  magnitude  of  the  favor. 

Robert  hastened  to  assure  Mrs.  Costello  of  his  apprecia 
tion  of  her  great  kindness,  and  of  how  much  —  how  very 
much  —  he  would  like  to  accept,  but  that  really  he  could  n't 
say  yes  to  so  tremendous  an  invitation. 

Mrs.  Costello  did  not  coax  him.  It  would  not  have  been 
characteristic  of  her.  She  only  wanted  Robert  as  a  guest 

375 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


in  case  he  could  come  willingly.  When  she  was  sure,  how 
ever,  that  he  really  wanted  to  come,  and  was  only  hindered 
by  the  old  New  England  prejudice  against  accepting  some 
thing  for  which  he  could  not  make  visible  payment,  she 
patiently  went  to  work,  and  one  by  one  broke  down  every 
objection.  She  said  very  graciously  that  it  would  steady 
them  all  to  have  a  worker  in  the  house,  and  that  his  coming 
would  be  quite  as  much  a  favor  to  them  as  to  him. 

In  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Costello's  beautiful  patience  and 
graciousness,  it  was  very  late  that  evening  before  Kobert 
could  bring  himself  definitely  to  accept  her  proffered  hos 
pitality.  One  might  have  thought  that  he  was  trying  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  do  something  that  he  did  n't  want  to 
do.  It  was  the  New  England  blood  at  an  old  and  favorite 
task,  —  the  task  of  trying  to  make  a  thing  seem  wrong 
simply  because  one  wanted  it.  Robert  drew  the  line  at 
selecting  the  decoration  for  his  bedroom.  He  was  sure  that 
anything  Mrs.  Costello  might  choose  would  be  highly  ac 
ceptable  to  him.  It  was  perhaps  this  minor  abstinence  that 
helped  him  to  allow  the  greater  gift.  Robert  was  not  yet 
so  large  as  Mrs.  Costello  in  his  mental  outlook,  and  could 
not  act  in  the  same  large  way. 

He  had  so  far  succeeded  in  being  nice  to  his  cousins  at 
Bolton  that  they  very  genuinely  joined  Stephen  in  his  out 
cry  against  Robert's  desertion.  Robert  himself  felt  a  little 
conscience-smitten  at  leaving,  but  he  was  going  as  a  student 
and  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  Had  it  not  been 
Mrs.  Costello's,  it  would  have  been  a  boarding-house  or  an 
apartment  hotel.  He  promised,  of  course,  to  return  in  a 
few  weeks  for  Priscilla's  wedding. 

Several  days  later,  Robert's  trunks  arrived  at  Mrs.  Cos- 
376 


ROBERT  CHOOSES  A  PROFESSION 

tello's,  and  that  same  afternoon  he  himself  stood  once  more 
at  the  open  door.  Katie  showed  him  to  his  room.  They 
would  not  dine  until  half  after  six,  she  said,  as  there  would 
be  guests.  When  Robert  went  downstairs,  the  company 
had  all  assembled.  Mrs.  Costello  greeted  him  warmly,  and 
at  dinner  gave  him  the  place  of  honor  at  her  right  hand. 
Later  in  the  evening,  after  the  guests  had  all  gone,  Robert 
and  Mrs.  Costello  lingered  a  few  moments  before  the  fire 
to  have  a  friendly  chat  before  separating  for  the  night. 

"  When  you  have  decided  upon  your  profession,  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter,  I  may  perhaps  be  able  to  help  you  with  some  intro 
ductions.  You  will  let  me  know,  won't  you  ?  and  allow  me 
to  serve  you  in  any  way  I  can." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Mrs.  Costello  had  referred  to 
the  impending  choice  of  a  profession.  Robert  felt  that  she 
had  had  it  much  in  mind,  and  of  late  he  himself  had 
scarcely  thought  of  anything  else.  He  thanked  her  heart 
ily,  and  said  that  he  would  be  only  too  glad  to  avail  him 
self  of  her  kindness. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  both  Mrs.  Costello  and  Robert 
sat  looking  into  the  fire.  Mrs.  Costello  made  a  motion  as 
if  to  rise,  but  Robert  detained  her  with  a  question.  "What 
do  you  do,  Mrs.  Costello,  when  you  have  an  important 
decision  to  make,  and  all  the  data  at  hand  for  making  it, 
but  every  time  you  set  to  work,  you  are  quite  baffled  by 
some  stubborn  little  obstacles  ?  They  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  decision,  they  are  not  nearly  so  important  as  it 
is,  but  at  every  turn  they  squarely  block  the  road,  and 
keep  you  fretting  in  uncertainty." 

Mrs.  Costello  settled  back  in  her  chair.  "  I  know  so 
well  what  you  mean,  dear  friend.  When  I  was  younger,  I 

377 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


used  always  to  defy  these  obstacles.  I  used  to  climb  over 
them,  or  force  my  way  around  them,  —  do  anything,  in 
short,  except  to  remove  them.  I  felt,  as  perhaps  you  feel, 
that  the  greater  thing  must  be  attended  to  first,  and  that 
afterwards  one  could  settle  with  these  little  perplexities. 
I  think  I  made  a  great  many  mistakes  in  that  way.  My 
mind  was  not  free,  and  I  could  not  reach  the  best  deci 
sions.  They  were  like  clouds  in  the  atmosphere,  and  I 
could  not  see." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  now  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Now,  I  first  annihilate  the  obstacle.  With  me,  it  is 
generally  some  omitted  duty.  It  may  be  very  trivial,  but 
it  pulls  at  my  spirit.  Sometimes  I  do  not  even  know  what 
it  is.  I  merely  feel  a  vague  sense  of  dissatisfaction,  and  I 
am  incapable  of  my  best  thinking.  I  once  said  to  a  dear 
friend  of  mine,  a  distinguished  psychologist,  that  I  thought 
life  would  be  very  easy  if  it  were  not  for  the  decisions." 

Robert  laughed  and  said,  "  That  is  precisely  what  I  feel. 
Did  your  friend  help  you  out  of  the  difficulty  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  quite  wonderful  way.  He  showed  me  that 
the  decisions  themselves  are  not  difficult.  Every  real 
problem,  he  used  to  say,  carries  its  own  answer  very  near  the 
surface.  The  practical  difficulty  is  to  get  rid  of  the  psycho 
logical  rubbish  that  covers  it  up.  He  had  a  method  for 
doing  this  that  I  have  never  known  to  fail.  It  is  surpris 
ingly  simple.  Whenever  you  feel  this  vague  disquiet,  turn 
upon  yourself  abruptly,  and  say  in  a  tone  of  quite  military 
command,  'Face  it! '  The  subliminal  self  is  really  servile. 
It  will  thrust  over  the  threshold  of  consciousness  the 
thing  that  has  been  bothering  you,  and  then  you  can  dis 
pose  of  it  at  once.  After  that,  when  all  such  rubbish  is 

378 


ROBERT  CHOOSES  A  PROFESSION 

gone,  all  such  psychological  rubbish,  as  my  friend  calls  it, 
the  decision  practically  makes  itself.  I  have  come  to  agree 
with  my  friend  that  the  answers  to  the  real  problems  of 
life  are  very  near  the  surface." 

Robert  rose.  "  Thank  you,'*  he  said,  "  and  good-night, 
for  I  know  that  you  must  be  tired  and  ought  to  be  going 
to  bed." 

"  Yes,  I  ought  to  be  going  up.  Perhaps  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  put  out  the  lights  when  you  are  ready  to  go  up 
yourself.  I  have  sent  Katie  to  bed." 

"Certainly,"  said  Robert.  "Good-night." 

Robert  sat  for  a  few  minutes  before  the  fire.  Then  he 
got  up  and  put  out  the  lights  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
crossed  the  landing  to  the  Italian  room  and  looked  around 
him  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  possession.  It  was  to  be  his, 
and  here  he  was  to  work  and  think.  A  curious,  canopied 
fireplace  occupied  one  corner  of  the  room.  It  suggested 
many  a  pleasant  fire.  A  long  bench  stretched  along  one 
side  of  the  room.  A  narrow  shelf  extended  out  a  few  inches 
from  the  top  of  the  high  back,  and  gave  support  to  a 
number  of  unframed  photographs.  Robert  looked  at  them 
with  interest.  They  all  represented  famous  buildings.  A 
lighted  lamp  still  stood  on  the  writing-table. 

Robert  dropped  into  the  armchair  in  front  of  the  table, 
and  sat  there  with  closed  eyes.  "  Face  it !  "  he  said  sternly. 
One  by  one  the  little  obstacles  to  freedom  forced  themselves 
over  the  threshold  of  consciousness,  and  one  by  one  Robert 
disposed  of  them.  They  were  small  matters,  —  omitted 
duties  of  no  great  dimensions,  good  plans  made  bad  by 
not  being  carried  out,  little  meannesses  of  the  spirit.  As 
they  passed  in  review  before  him,  Robert  hated  himself 

379 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


for  not  having  disposed  of  them  long  before.  He  began 
by  writing  three  letters,  one  to  Pauline,  one  to  Dennis 
Sullivan,  and  one  to  Stephen. 

Kobert  had  never  written  to  Pauline,  save  the  little  note 
in  Paris  when  he  first  got  there,  and  that  notable  letter  at 
York  which  happily  had  never  been  sent.  His  present  let 
ter  was  friendly,  but  not  in  any  way  emotional.  He  wrote 
to  express  the  hope  that  their  affairs  had  been  arranged  to 
her  satisfaction,  and  that  she  herself  was  well  and  happy. 
He  was  shockingly  late  in  making  amends  for  what  now 
seemed  to  him  an  almost  unpardonable  neglect,  but  he  had 
the  good  sense  not  to  apologize. 

The  note  to  Dennis  Sullivan  asked  if  he  would  call  the 
following  evening  and  talk  over  his  plans.  It  hinted  that 
Robert  would  like  to  help  them  on. 

Robert's  letter  to  Stephen  was  to  carry  out  an  old  plan 
that  had  been  good  at  the  start,  but  had  grown  poor  by 
omission.  The  letter  ran :  — 

DEAR  STEPHEN  :  —  I  think  you  know  something  about 
my  affairs,  and  I  want  your  help  in  straightening  them  out. 
My  aunt,  as  you  know,  left  me  the  bulk  of  her  property. 
It  brings  me  a  trifle  over  six  thousand  a  year.  She  left 
my  cousins  only  one  thousand  apiece  and  the  old  house. 
At  the  time  of  her  death  I  was  too  ill,  and  also  too  morally 
blind,  to  realize  the  injustice  of  this  arrangement.  I  know 
better  now,  and  I  propose  to  mend  it.  I  shall  be  at  your 
office  to-morrow  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  sharp,  and  I 
shall  expect  you  to  be  prepared  with  such  papers  and  other 
tiresome  red-tape  as  may  be  necessary  to  redistribute  my 
aunt's  property  so  that  each  of  the  girls  may  have  a  couple 

380 


ROBERT  CHOOSES  A   PROFESSION 

of  thousand  a  year.  Even  now,  as  you  see,  I  retain  a  thou 
sand  more  than  I  give  them.  I  do  this  because  they  have 
the  house,  and  because  I  have  a  growing  suspicion  —  which 
promises  to  become  a  dead  certainty !  —  that  women  can 
make  money  go  farther  than  men  can.  You  may  hesitate 
to  act  in  this  matter  because  it  affects  Priscilla's  interests 
and  so  touches  you.  But  you  've  got  to  do  it,  dear  Stephen, 
for  if  you  don't,  I  shall  go  to  some  other  lawyer,  and  he 
might  not  do  it  right ! 

Remember,  —  three  o'clock  sharp. 

Yours  ever, 

R.  P. 

From  these  rather  obvious  duties  Robert  passed  to  the 
more  intangible  and  subtle  matters  of  the  spirit,  matters 
which  could  not  be  disposed  of  by  pen  and  paper,  but  about 
which  he  could  make  definite  plans  of  action.  True  to  his 
old  methodical  habits,  he  drew  up  a  list,  and  against  each 
accusing  entry  set  down  the  proposed  restitution.  It  was 
a  curious  and,  in  spite  of  some  absurdities,  a  touching  list. 
The  clock  had  gone  well  beyond  midnight  when  Robert's 
final  command  —  "  Face  it !  "  —  brought  the  honest  an 
swer  that  there  was  nothing  to  face. 

Robert's  heart  was  still  a  bit  heavy,  but  his  mind  and 
conscience  at  least  were  free.  He  had  cleared  away  the 
psychological  rubbish,  and  could  look  the  matter  of  his 
future  profession  quite  squarely  in  the  face.  He  went  up 
to  bed  in  buoyant  spirits,  knowing  that  in  the  morning  his 
decision  would  have  been  made. 

Mrs.  Costello  always  had  her  breakfast-tray  sent  to  her 
room.  As  Robert  came  downstairs  the  following  morning, 

381 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


he  met  Katie  just  taking  up  the  tray.  He  detained  her  a 
moment  in  order  to  send  a  little  note  to  Mrs.  Costello.  It 
simply  read :  — 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  —  I  have  come  to  a  decision.  I  shall  be 
an  architect. 

Robert  waited  a  little  impatiently  for  Katie  to  return. 
He  knew  that  she  would  bring  him  an  answering  note.  In 
the  meantime  he  walked  up  and  down  the  Italian  room, 
and  examined  the  various  articles  that  adorned  it.  His  eye 
wandered  once  more  to  the  photographs  on  the  shelf  over 
the  settle.  He  felt  quite  sure  that  they  had  not  been  there 
at  the  time  of  his  first  visit.  It  seemed  an  odd  coincidence 
that  they  all  had  to  do  with  his  newly  chosen  art.  Then 
he  laughed  softly,  for  it  dawned  upon  him  that  Mrs.  Cos 
tello  had  placed  them  there  with  a  purpose.  When  Katie 
came  downstairs,  she  brought  him  the  expected  note :  — 

I  knew  what  your  choice  would  be,  dear  Mr.  Pendexter, 
and  I  thoroughly  approve.  Here  is  a  motto  for  you,  — 
from  Keats,  —  "I  have  loved  the  principle  of  beauty  in  all 
things." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  NAKED  HORSEMAN 

DURING  the  next  three  weeks,  life  at  Mrs.  Costello's 
easily  settled  into  a  pleasant  routine.  The  feeling  of  being 
at  home  which  had  come  to  Robert  the  first  time  he 
entered  the  house  had  so  far  deepened  that  now  it  seemed 
as  if  he  must  have  lived  there  always.  He  had  found  his 
natural  atmosphere.  He  felt  that,  in  some  subtle  way 
which  he  did  not  understand,  Mrs.  Costello  was  support 
ing  him  by  her  calmness  and  poise;  and  he  also  felt  by 
an  equally  sure  instinct  that  he  might  properly  allow  this 
service,  since  it  entailed  no  burden  upon  her. 

After  talking  the  matter  over  at  some  length  with  both 
Mrs.  Costello  and  Stephen,  Robert  had  decided  not  to 
undertake  college,  and  for  the  present,  at  least,  not  even 
to  enter  at  the  Institute.  He  was  a  little  old  for  either 
of  these  disciplines,  and  both  his  friends  felt,  without 
phrasing  it  in  quite  the  same  way,  that  Robert's  tempera 
ment  was  in  a  high  degree  intuitional,  and  that  whatever 
he  got  in  the  matter  of  preparation  for  the  new  profession 
would  have  to  be  gained  outside  the  regular  official  chan 
nels.  By  the  help  of  Mrs.  Costello's  introduction,  and 
somewhat  on  the  evidence  of  his  sketches,  Robert  found 
place  in  one  of  the  good  architects'  offices  in  Boston.  As 
an  unusual  favor,  he  was  allowed  to  work  in  the  office 
only  in  the  mornings  and  to  have  his  afternoons  to  him 
self.  Mrs.  Costello  had  stipulated  for  this  half-time  ar 
rangement,  and  perhaps  no  one  else  but  just  Mrs.  Costello 

383 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


could  have  got  it.  She  quite  realized  that  Robert  was  not 
strong,  and  also  that,  in  spite  of  his  intuitional  powers, 
he  was  nevertheless  as  yet  a  very  ignorant  young  person. 
He  needed  the  free  afternoons  for  vigorous  study  and  read 
ing.  Mrs.  Costello  had  a  large  belief  in  Robert's  natural 
powers,  for  he  had  met  so  many  unaccustomed  circum 
stances  with  really  marked  success.  But  she  had  also  a 
tonic  belief  in  the  value  of  expert  training.  She  was  quite 
resolved  that,  so  far  as  her  own  influence  went,  it  should 
be  exerted  to  bring  into  Robert's  life  the  broadest  possible 
culture.  It  was  the  easier  for  her  to  do  this  because  of 
Robert's  unbounded  confidence  in  her  judgment,  and  still 
more,  perhaps,  because  of  the  almost  filial  devotion  that 
he  was  coming  to  have  for  her. 

Mrs.  Costello  encouraged  Robert  to  read  not  only  in 
the  direction  of  his  chosen  art,  but  also  far  afield  in  the 
stricter  literature  of  the  humanities.  For  the  same  reason 
she  begged  him  to  write  as  well  as  to  sketch,  since  each 
form  of  expression  would  help  the  other.  Robert  was 
somewhat  aghast  at  the  idea  of  writing,  for  aside  from 
occasional  letters,  he  had  not  written  a  word  since  he 
had  left  the  high  school,  and  his  efforts  there  had  confess 
edly  been  the  most  platitudinous  sort  of  compositions, 
the  labored  restatement  of  what  everybody  knew  in  the 
beginning. 

Mrs.  Costello's  interest  in  Robert  began  with  her  half 
knowledge  of  those  several  experiences  of  his  when  he 
had  escaped  from  his  smaller  conditioned  self  and  had 
become  momentarily  identified  with  the  larger  aspect  of 
being.  Mrs.  Costello  herself  could  pass  into  this  state  at 
will.  It  was  indeed  the  habitual  atmosphere  in  which  she 

384 


THE   NAKED   HORSEMAN 


lived.  It  accounted  for  the  impersonal  character  of  her 
life,  and  the  almost  faultless  quality  of  her  charity.  But 
she  had  gained  this  power  only  as  the  fruit  of  a  tre 
mendous  novitiate.  For  years  she  had  trained  herself  by 
ceaseless  discipline.  It  was  only  now,  when  she  was  ap 
proaching  sixty,  that  she  had  come  into  any  large  degree 
of  realization.  As  she  well  knew,  the  power  with  Robert 
was  unconscious  and  occasional.  But  that  such  an  experi 
ence  should  be  his  in  any  measure  whatever  without  the 
discipline  of  a  severe  training  indicated  an  unusual  and 
choice  nature. 

Mrs.  Costello  did  not  seek  to  pry  into  Robert's  experi 
ences,  much  as  they  interested  her.  But  with  such  tact  < 
that  her  purpose  was  wholly  hidden,  she  did  encourage 
him  to  develop  the  superconscious.  She  loaned  him  books 
which  dealt  with  the  more  spiritual  aspects  of  psychology, 
and  when  he  was  at  a  loss  for  topics  in  his  practice-writ 
ing,  she  suggested  that  it  might  be  well  for  him  to  try 
purely  imaginative  writing,  and  to  deal  with  possible 
inner  experiences.  She  felt  almost  guilty  when  Robert 
promptly  accepted  her  suggestion,  and  asked  if  he  might 
not  submit  some  of  his  papers  to  her  for  criticism.  Mrs. 
Costello  had  not  foreseen  this  result.  She  had  no  inten 
tion  of  gaining  entrance  to  his  soul  by  stealth  where  she 
would  have  scorned  to  force  her  way  openly.  Yet  she 
could  not  well  refuse  so  simple  a  request.  She  smiled  and 
said  that  while  she  could  wish  him  a  more  expert  critic, 
he  could  hardly  hope  to  find  a  more  interested  one. 

It  was  now  early  in  November.  The  day  chosen  for 
Stephen  and  Priscilla's  wedding  was  at  hand.  Robert  was 
to  be  best  man,  and  though  the  ceremony  was  not  to  be 

385 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


until  noon,  he  had  yielded  to  Priscilla's  urgent  invitation 
to  go  out  to  Bolton  the  preceding  afternoon.  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello  had  sent  her  regrets.  She  felt  a  genuine  interest  in 
Stephen,  and  she  liked  what  she  had  seen  of  Priscilla  on 
the  one  occasion  when  the  young  people  had  dined  with 
Robert  and  herself.  But  Mrs.  Costello  felt  that  her  pre 
sence  at  Bolton  might  be  more  of  an  embarrassment  to  the 
sisters  than  a  help,  and  especially  as  the  house  would 
probably  be  over-full  as  it  was.  So  she  contented  herself 
with  sending  a  friendly  note  to  Stephen,  and  a  simple, 
well-chosen  gift  to  Priscilla. 

Robert  told  Mrs.  Costello  good-by  directly  after  lunch 
eon.  He  would  be  back,  he  said,  on  the  following  after 
noon,  probably  in  time  for  five  o'clock  tea.  An  hour  or 
so  later,  when  Mrs.  Costello  was  in  her  living-room  at  the 
top  of  the  house, — her  oratory,  as  she  had  named  it 
to  Robert, — she  was  surprised  to  hear  his  voice  at  the 
bottom  of  the  staircase,  asking  if  he  might  come  up. 

"Certainly;  do  come  up,  please,"  answered  Mrs.  Cos 
tello,  and  went  into  the  hallway  to  meet  him.  Robert 
had  been  in  the  oratory  a  couple  of  times  before,  and  it 
always  seemed  to  him  holy  ground,  so  completely  was  it 
saturated  with  the  atmosphere  of  a  good  life.  Mrs.  Cos 
tello  gave  up  the  second  floor  of  her  house  to  her  guests, 
and  retained  the  top  floor  for  herself.  The  sloping  roof 
and  low  ceiling  gave  it  an  air  of  homely  comfort.  The 
living-room  or  oratory  occupied  nearly  the  entire  floor, 
stretching  across  the  south  front  of  the  house,  and  hav 
ing  windows  on  three  sides.  The  walls  were  tinted  a  quiet 
gray.  There  were  very  few  pictures,  and  the  furniture 
was  of  the  simplest.  The  floor  was  bare  except  for  two 

386 


THE   NAKED   HORSEMAN 


small  rugs  in  front  of  the  writing-table  and  the  couch. 
Yet  there  was  an  air  of  luxuriousness  about  the  room. 
This  was  due  in  part  to  the  large  free  spaces,  and  in  part 
to  the  generous  open  windows  which  just  now  let  in  a 
flood  of  sunshine,  and  from  which  one  could  look  out  over 
the  treetops  in  the  garden  and  see  the  winding  Charles, 
and  the  distant  Milton  hills. 

Robert  was  ready  to  start  on  his  journey.  He  carried  a 
folded  manuscript.  "  I  told  you  good-by  once,"  he  said, 
in  explanation  of  his  reappearance,  "  but  now  that  I  'm 
really  off,  I  wanted  to  say  good-by  again  and  to  leave  this 
paper  with  you.  Don't  read  it  until  to-morrow,  please. 
It's  one  of  my  practice  pieces,  you  know,  and  will  do 
just  as  well  when  you  're  not  so  busy.  It's  horribly  selfish 
of  me,  is  n't  it  ?  but  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Bolton  a  little 
bit.  It 's  so  nice  to  be  settled  once  more,  that  I  should 
just  like  to  forget  that  there  are  such  things  as  railroad 
trains." 

Mrs.  Costello  smiled,  but  she  was  inwardly  rather  per 
plexed.  Robert's  coming  to  tell  her  good-by  a  second  time 
was  evidently  a  matter  of  impulse,  and  she  thought  no 
thing  of  it ;  but  his  not  wanting  to  go  to  the  wedding 
seemed  undeniably  strange.  There  was  no  possible  excuse 
for  Robert's  staying  at  home,  so  Mrs.  Costello  said  cheerily, 
"  It  will  do  you  good  to  see  some  young  people.  My  only 
fear  is  that  when  you  get  out  to  Bolton  again,  you  won't 
want  to  come  back ! " 

Robert  laughed.  "  I  think  you  know  just  how  much 
danger  there  is  of  that.  I  shall  be  back  the  first  possible 
moment." 

Robert  shook  hands  again  with  odd  earnestness  and 
387 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


was  gone.  Mrs.  Costello  looked  at  the  manuscript  curi 
ously.  She  wanted  to  read  it  then  and  there,  but  Robert 
had  said  not  until  the  morrow. 

Robert's  depression  was  inexplicable,  even  to  himself. 
It  soon  passed  away,  however,  for  motion  always  helped  to 
restore  his  good  spirits.  At  Hudson,  Stephen  and  Priscilla 
met  him  and  drove  him  over  to  Bolton.  Their  own  hap 
piness  and  the  pleasant  sting  of  the  November  air  were 
enough  to  cheer  any  one.  There  were  only  three  other 
guests  at  the  house,  —  Stephen's  mother  and  sister,  and  a 
Pendexter  cousin  who  lived  at  some  distance.  Robert  threw 
himself  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion  with  great  good 
will.  They  had  seldom  known  him  so  lively  and  so  full  of 
anecdote. 

When  Robert  went  to  bed  that  night,  he  had  the  satis 
faction  of  feeling  that  he  had  added  to  the  happiness  of 
Priscilla's  last  evening  of  girlhood.  But  Robert  could  not 
sleep.  He  was  not  restless.  He  lay  as  quiet  as  if  he  had 
been  sound  asleep,  but  his  mind  was  curiously  awake.  His 
thoughts  covered  a  wide  range,  but  always  they  came  back 
to  the  one  theme,  to  Alicia.  He  wondered  how  he  would 
feel  if  to-morrow  it  were  he  and  Alicia  who  were  to  be 
married,  instead  of  Stephen  and  Priscilla.  At  first  the 
thought  brought  with  it  a  flood  of  tantalizing  happiness, 
but  to  his  surprise,  the  longing  for  Alicia  gave  speedy 
place  to  new  considerations.  He  had  never  really  expected 
to  marry  Alicia,  but  now  he  felt  how  impossible  it  was, 
and  how  wrong  of  him  even  to  wish  it.  It  seemed  to  Rob 
ert  that  his  thought  grew  piercingly  clear,  as  if  he  were  out 
on  a  still,  cold,  violet  night,  when  the  light  of  the  stars 
penetrated  the  ether  like  thrusts  of  steel.  No  atmosphere 

388 


THE   NAKED   HORSEMAN 


of  light-touched  inists  kept  him  from  seeing  the  bare 
truth.  And  the  bare  truth  was  that  he  was  not  worthy  of 
Alicia.  This  would  have  been  a  dreary  conclusion  after 
so  many  storms,  so  much  heartburn,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  small  voice  that  kept  saying  in  his  spirit,  "  Not  now,  — 
not  yet,  —  but  some  time."  And  the  small  voice  brought 
with  it  infinite  hope.  He  could  at  least  work  to  make  him 
self  worthy  of  Alicia.  That  was  an  enterprise  that  was 
worth  while  if  it  took  the  rest  of  life,  even  if  he  had  to 
labor  beyond  the  grave  in  that  school  of  which  we  have 
no  news. 

Robert's  thoughts  had  seldom  gone  so  far  into  the  fu 
ture.  He  had  thought  of  death,  with  the  majority,  as  a 
disagreeable  interruption  to  one's  plans,  as  the  end  of  all 
immediate  hope.  And  the  church  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up,  in  its  splendid  effort  to  do  full  justice  to  this 
life,  had  omitted  to  give  any  substantiality  to  his  hopes 
of  that  other  life.  But  to-night,  with  all  the  radiance  of  a 
great  illumination,  there  came  the  larger  thought  of  death, 
not  as  an  end,  but  as  a  beginning ;  not  as  something  to  be 
dreaded,  but  as  something,  when  the  time  came,  to  be 
gently  welcomed.  Off  from  Robert's  soul  forever  rolled 
the  possible  thought  of  defeat.  There  might  be  minor  de 
feats,  disappointments,  retardations,  but  in  the  whole 
scheme  of  things,  he  could  find  no  ultimate  defeat.  The 
forces  at  work  on  the  soul  might  be  small  and  slow,  or 
tremendous  and  rapid,  but  in  either  case  they  carried  the 
unescapable  seed  of  victory,  for  they  carried  with  them  in 
finite  time.  Into  Robert's  heart  there  came  an  almost  suf 
focating  sense  of  illimitable  wealth.  He  might  ask  what 
he  would,  —  knowledge,  wisdom,  power,  goodness,  love, 

389 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


—  and  the  gods  themselves  could  not  gainsay  his  quest. 
Lying  there  in  the  dark,  Robert  felt  the  divine  touch  of 
the  Spirit.  He  knew  that  for  him  the  night  was  passing, 
the  night  of  defeat  and  doubt,  and  that  ahead  he  could 
already  see  the  radiance  of  a  great  light. 

Robert  fell  asleep,  and  rested  peacefully  until  well  into 
the  morning.  He  was  only  awakened  when  Stephen  burst 
into  his  room  to  remind  him  that  it  was  no  ordinary  day,  but 
his  and  Priscilla's  wedding  morning,  and  that  the  best  man 
must  be  up  and  doing.  It  was  not  difficult  for  Robert  to 
take  a  kindly  part  in  the  mixed  solemnity  and  merry-making 
of  the  wedding,  for  he  meant  to  be  very  nice  to  his  cou 
sins  and  to  help  them  make  the  great  event  a  success.  But 
in  spite  of  himself,  he  moved  like  one  in  a  dream.  Every 
thing  had  about  it  a  slight  touch  of  unreality.  The  expe 
rience  of  the  night  before  was  still  strong  upon  him.  He 
had  the  feeling  that  this  was  not  his  proper  world.  He  had 
not  been  for  a  long  time  in  such  a  crowd  of  alien  people. 
Most  of  them  were  strangers,  or,  more  difficult  still,  persons 
whom  he  had  formerly  known  and  had  not  seen  for  many 
months.  Some  of  the  more  discerning  critics  regarded 
Robert's  manners  as  too  formal,  and  put  it  down  to  the 
constraining  influence  of  Europe,  but  none  could  find 
specific  fault.  Stephen  and  Priscilla  were  too  blissfully 
happy  to  notice  Robert's  abstraction ;  and  Martha  and 
Mattie  were  much  too  busy. 

It  was  with  an  undeniable  sense  of  relief  that  Robert 
saw  the  wedding- journey ers  drive  off  to  Lancaster  to  catch 
a  south-bound  train,  and  felt  free  himself  to  look  up  his 
own  train  for  Boston.  Mattie  drove  him  over  to  Hudson. 
Robert  settled  himself  in  the  last  car,  as  that  happened  to 

390 


THE  NAKED  HORSEMAN 


be  the  least  crowded.  He  had  looked  forward  to  this  mo 
ment  when  the  whole  affair  would  be  quite  over,  and  he 
himself  on  the  way  back  to  Mrs.  Costello's.  But  he  could 
not  shake  off  the  feeling  that  he  was  still  in  a  dream,  and 
that  all  the  noise  and  bustle  around  him  were  wholly 
unimportant,  as  he  should  presently  waken.  Even  the 
stopping  of  the  train  in  obedience  to  a  danger  signal  at 
Baker's  Bridge  filled  him  with  no  impatience.  At  least 
twenty  minutes  passed.  No  one  seemed  to  know  the 
cause  of  the  detention.  Robert  pulled  out  his  watch.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  be  too  late  to  join  Mrs. 
Costello  and  Mrs.  Mason  at  their  afternoon  tea,  and  he 
felt  vaguely  sorry.  Presently  he  heard  a  rumbling  noise, 
and  he  thought  that  at  last  the  train  was  getting  under 

way- 
Robert  looked  around  incuriously.  The  train  was  not 
yet  moving.  The  rumbling  noise  grew  louder  and  nearer. 
At  the  same  moment  the  terrifying  headlight  of  a  locomo 
tive  loomed  up  in  the  rear.  It  was  the  through  express 
from  the  West,  and  it  was  bearing  down  upon  them  with 
unrelenting  speed.  A  horrible  panic  filled  the  car, —  cries 
of  terror,  desperate  struggles,  imprecations,  prayers,  the 
meanest  cowardice  and  the  most  sublime  heroism  mingled 
in  an  instant  of  time.  Robert  was  now  fully  awake.  He 
sat  near  the  front  of  the  car,  and  started  for  the  open 
door.  Those  ahead  of  him  had  already  made  their  escape. 
An  old  Irishwoman  in  the  seat  opposite  was  bent  on 
saving  both  herself  and  her  satchel.  "  Drop  it !  "  cried 
Robert.  "  Hurry  !  "  He  waited  an  instant  for  her  to  pass, 
and  then  it  was  too  late.  The  crash  came,  and  Robert 
knew  nothing  more. 

391 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


It  so  chanced  that  on  Stephen's  wedding  day  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello  was  occupied  all  morning.  At  luncheon  she  had 
several  guests.  It  was  not  until  nearly  dark  that  the  last 
guest  left  and  Mrs.  Costello  found  herself  free.  She  had 
not  forgotten  Robert's  manuscript.  She  sent  Katie  up 
stairs  after  it,  as  she  wanted  to  be  in  the  drawing-room 
herself  when  Robert  returned.  It  rather  amused  her  to 
find  that  she  was  not  willing  to  have  Mrs.  Mason  pour  his 
tea.  "  I  'm  getting  like  all  other  old  women,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  They  begrudge  every  one  the  pleasure  of  waiting 
on  their  sons."  But  Mrs.  Coste'llo  hoped  that  Robert  might 
be  a  little  late,  for  she  wanted  to  have  read  his  manuscript 
before  he  came  in.  She  sat  down  in  the  low  chair  near  the 
fire  and  waited.  Katie  brought  down  the  manuscript  and 
lighted  the  lamps. 

"  Be  sure  to  light  the  Italian  room,  Katie,"  said  Mrs. 
Costello,  "and  leave  the  gas  in  Mr.  Pendexter's  room 
turned  up  brightly.  He  will  be  home  any  moment  now." 

Mrs.  Costello  unfolded  the  manuscript  and  began  to 
read.  She  had  meant  to  run  through  it  rapidly,  so  as  to 
have  finished  before  Robert  came  in.  Afterwards  she 
would  read  it  over  again  more  leisurely.  But  once  started, 
she  lost  herself  in  the  reading  and  forgot  everything  else. 
The  title  made  her  shiver.  She  mistook  Robert's  mean 
ing.  She  thought  that  he  meant  Death.  Eagerly  and  yet 
with  a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness  she  read  the  manuscript 
through :  — 

"THE  NAKED  HORSEMAN 

"  The  valley  was  very  large.  It  extended  on  all  sides  of 
me  like  a  great  plain.  But  it  was  not  interminable.  To 

392 


THE  NAKED  HORSEMAN 


the  west  a  range  of  distant  mountains  cut  the  sky  like 
huge  pasteboard  fashioned  into  grotesque  outlines.  To  the 
east  there  were  near  foothills.  Back  of  them  were  wild 
granite  mountains,  whose  peaks  are  forever  white  with 
snow.  In  front  of  me  the  valley  swept  unbrokenly  to  the 
south.  In  the  distance  it  leaped  up  to  meet  the  sky  the 
way  the  ocean  meets  it.  On  the  horizon  there  was  nothing. 
Beyond  this  horizon  you  felt  that  there  was  everything. 
Behind  me,  —  but  I  could  not  see  what  was  behind  me.  I 
was  free,  I  thought,  to  turn  in  the  saddle,  yet  every  time 
I  made  to  do  so,  I  was  prevented.  It  was  not  the  wind.  It 
was  not  a  bodily  touch.  It  was  something  vast  and  irre 
sistible.  It  drew  me  up  the  valley  towards  that  horizon 
which  disclosed  nothing  and  held  everything.  I  did  not 
have  to  urge  my  horse.  He  caught  the  spirit  of  the  moment 
and  was  steeped  in  motion.  We  swept  up  the  valley  at 
an  impossible  speed.  But  I  was  not  terrified.  I  could  not 
hear  the  horse's  footfall.  I  could  not  hear  the  wind.  Every 
thing  was  silent.  Then  in  front  of  me  there  stretched 
a  shallow  gulch.  A  long,  gentle  slope  led  down  to  the  bot 
tom  of  it.  A  long,  gentle  slope  led  up  on  the  other  side  to 
the  top  of  it.  I  crossed  the  brim  of  the  gulch.  Then  I 
heard  footfalls  behind  me,  the  rhythmic  footfalls  of  a  rapidly 
galloping  horse.  But  I  could  not  look  around.  My  own 
horse  pricked  up  his  ears  and  went  still  faster.  But  the 
footfalls  of  the  galloping  horse  came  nearer  and  nearer. 
It  seemed  strange  that  I  could  not  look  around.  Then  the 
footfalls  came  abreast  of  me  and  I  was  free  to  look.  I  saw 
a  large  roan  horse  with  a  mane  and  tail  of  cream  color. 
No  bridle  was  in  his  mouth.  No  saddle  was  upon  his  back. 
But  astride  him  sat  a  naked  man.  He  was  lithe  and  beau- 

393 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


tiful.  His  strong  arms  were  hanging  at  his  sides,  and  his 
hands  were  resting  as  if  they  had  no  weight  against  his 
strong  legs.  I  could  see  the  profile  of  his  face.  It  was 
strong  and  finely  chiseled.  His  hair  was  tawny,  like  bur 
nished  copper.  It  tossed  about  his  head,  a  surging  red- 
gold  halo.  It  seemed  to  me  quite  natural  that  the  man 
should  be  riding  there  beside  me.  I  was  not  terrified.  I 
was  not  even  astonished.  Then  the  man  spoke.  '  Faster, 
little  brother,  faster ! '  I  could  feel  the  air  against  my 
cheeks.  It  was  not  the  wind.  It  was  the  air  itself  that 
we  leaped  out  to  meet.  Side  by  side  we  rushed  along,  the 
smite  of  the  air  growing  stronger  and  stronger.  Faster 
and  faster  went  the  horses.  The  blood  in  my  veins  ran 
wilder  and  wilder.  But  I  was  unafraid.  In  my  heart  there 
was  a  great  exultation.  It  was  not  I  who  swept  towards 
the  horizon  beyond  which  there  is  everything.  It  was 
Life,  —  Life  its  very  self.  It  was  Life  that  had  overtaken 
me,  that  was  transforming  me  and  absorbing  me.  And 
there  were  no  longer  two  of  us.  There  was  but  one  horse 
and  there  was  but  one  horseman.  I  could  hear  the  rhyth 
mic  footfalls  on  the  hard  floor  of  the  valley.  It  was  the 
great  roan  horse  with  mane  and  tail  of  cream  color.  There 
was  no  bridle  in  his  mouth.  There  was  no  saddle  on  his 
back.  I  sat  astride  him  easily.  My  bare  arms  hung  at  the 
side  of  my  great  chest.  My  idle  hands  rested  as  if  they 
had  no  weight  against  the  hard  muscles  of  my  legs.  Then 
I  leaned  over  and  spoke  to  the  great  horse.  'Faster,  little 
brother,  faster  ! '  No  quiver  ran  through  his  great  frame. 
But  swifter  and  fiercer  the  air  smote  against  my  face  and 
my  hair,  —  the  air  that  we  leaped  out  to  meet.  It  smote 
against  my  chest  and  against  my  arms  and  against  my 

394 


THE  NAKED  HORSEMAN 


legs.  The  wine  of  Life  was  in  my  veins.  The  joy  of  Life 
was  in  my  heart.  Then  I  shouted  aloud,  '  Faster,  little 
brother,  faster,  faster ! '  But  the  great  horse  did  not  hear 
me.  He  was  but  a  part  of  the  wide  valley  that  lay  behind 
me.  I  could  no  longer  hear  the  footfalls  of  his  galloping. 
With  the  wide  earth  valley  I  was  sweeping  over  the  brim 
of  that  far  horizon  beyond  which  there  is  everything.  A 
moment  passed,  or  it  might  have  been  an  eternity,  I  did 
not  know  which.  For  the  moment,  or  for  the  eternity,  I 
and  the  world  were  one.  Then  I  felt  again  the  old  saddle 
under  me,  and  in  my  left  hand  the  old  reins.  I  looked 
around  me.  I  was  at  the  edge  of  a  shallow  gulch.  A  long, 
gentle  slope  led  down  to  the  bottom  of  it.  A  long,  gentle 
slope  led  up  on  the  opposite  side  to  the  top  of  it.  I  had 
passed  over  great  space  and  much  time  had  gone.  So  I 
thought.  But  it  was  less  than  a  foot.  It  was  less  than  an 
instant.  Then  I  knew  that  in  the  life  of  the  Spirit  there  is 
neither  space  nor  time." 

Mrs.  Costello  put  the  manuscript  down  on  the  table 
beside  her.  It  seemed  to  her  a  remarkable  production  for 
one  so  unused  to  any  sort  of  composition,  and  she  wondered 
what  mood  had  called  it  forth.  But  it  made  her  still  more 
uneasy  about  Robert  himself.  It  seemed  to  indicate  so 
slight  a  hold  upon  the  world-life  and  too  great  a  readiness 
to  be  off  into  the  life  beyond. 

Mrs.  Costello  listened  anxiously  for  Robert's  footstep. 
Mrs.  Mason  joined  her.  The  tea  things  were  brought  in. 
Almost  unwillingly  Mrs.  Costello  made  the  tea.  Presently 
Professor  Heim  dropped  in.  He  was  enthusiastic  about 
certain  tendencies  in  modern  German  literature.  He  had 

395 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


interesting  news  of  the  distinguished  scholar  that  the 
Kaiser  was  just  lending  to  Harvard  for  a  year.  Ordinarily, 
these  subjects  interested  Mrs.  Costello  very  genuinely,  but 
this  afternoon  the  talk  fell  mainly  to  Professor  Heim  and 
Mrs.  Mason.  Mrs.  Costello  listened  politely,  and  occasion 
ally  she  threw  in  a  casual  remark,  but  it  was  evident  that 
her  thought  was  elsewhere.  Professor  Heim  withdrew. 
Mrs.  Mason  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner.  Still  Mrs.  Cos 
tello  sat  before  the  fire  listening.  It  was  six  o'clock  when 
she  finally  went  upstairs  herself.  She  dressed  hurriedly, 
but  with  even  more  than  her  usual  care.  She  came  di 
rectly  back  to  the  drawing-room.  She  was  so  determined 
that  Robert  should  have  come  home,  that  when  Katie  an 
nounced  dinner,  Mrs.  Costello  told  her  to  go  upstairs  and 
call  Mr.  Pendexter.  It  rather  added  to  Mrs.  Costello's 
uneasiness  when  Katie  answered,  "  I  've  been  upstairs 
already,  ma'am,  but  Mr.  Pendexter  is  not  in  his  room." 

Mrs.  Mason  came  downstairs  and  the  two  ladies  went 
in  to  dinner.  The  soup  was  brought.  Before  Mrs.  Costello 
tasted  hers,  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Mason  and  said  almost 
apologetically,  "  It  is  foolish,  I  know,  but  I  feel  strangely 
uneasy  about  Mr.  Pendexter.  If  you  will  excuse  me  a  mo 
ment,  my  dear,  I  think  I  will  just  step  to  the  telephone 
and  ask  if  there  has  been  any  reported  delay  in  the  trains." 

Mrs.  Costello  went  to  the  telephone  in  the  little  back 
hall  and  called  up  the  Union  Station.  "  Please  give  me 
the  Superintendent's  Office,"  she  asked.  "  Yes,  the  matter 
is  important.  Yes.  Say  that  Mrs.  Costello  wants  to  speak 
to  the  Superintendent,  or  to  one  of  his  assistants.  Yes,  I 
will  hold  the  line.  Please  ask  him  to  make  haste." 

A  few  moments  later,  Mrs.  Costello  hurried  back  to  the 
396 


THE  NAKED   HORSEMAN 


dining-room.  Mrs.  Mason  and  Katie  saw  at  once  that 
something  had  happened.  Very  quietly  Mrs.  Costello  told 
them  of  the  accident  and  such  details  as  she  had  been  able 
to  gather.  Then  she  began  hurriedly  to  give  her  orders. 
"  Get  me  my  cloak,  Katie.  Quickly,  please.  Yes,  the  heavy 
one  with  the  fur  collar.  And  bring  the  dark  velvet  bonnet. 
Any  gloves  will  do."  Then  Mrs.  Costello  turned  to  Mrs. 
Mason.  "  No,  my  dear.  You  would  better  not  go  with  me. 
Stay  here,  please,  and  have  everything  in  readiness.  See 
that  there  is  plenty  of  hot  water.  You  may  call  a  cab  for 
me.  No,  —  please  don't.  I  shall  make  better  time  on  the 
trolley.  Call  up  Dr.  Babcock  and  ask  if  he  cannot  meet 
me  at  Waltham.  They  have  improvised  a  hospital  near 
the  station,  and  Mr.  Pendexter  has  probably  been  carried 
there." 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  before  Mrs.  Costello  reached 
the  temporary  hospital.  There  was  great  confusion.  Men 
and  women  with  drawn,  stricken  faces  were  hunting  for 
wives  and  husbands,  mothers  and  fathers,  daughters  and 
sons.  Mrs.  Costello  was  faint  with  pity.  The  surgeons  in 
charge  were  almost  exhausted,  but  there  was  something 
about  Mrs.  Costello  that  compelled  attention.  One  of  the 
younger  men  went  with  her  down  the  long  row  of  cots. 

In  a  remote  corner  Mrs.  Costello  and  the  young  doc 
tor  found  Robert.  He  was  very  still  and  very  white.  His 
eyes  were  closed.  With  professional  instinct  the  doctor 
felt  his  pulse. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Costello. 

"  No,  he  is  still  alive,"  the  doctor  answered  gravely. 

"  But  you  think  he  cannot  live  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Costello. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  doctor,  and  turned  away  with 
397 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


a  heavy  heart  to  attend  to  other  sufferers.    But  first  he 
remembered  to  bring  Mrs.  Costello  a  chair. 

For  some  moments  Mrs.  Costello  stood  at  Robert's  side. 
She  had  come  to  him  with  all  the  strong  force  of  her  will 
bent  upon  claiming  him  on  the  side  of  Life.  She  took 
Robert's  hand.  It  was  not  cold,  —  thank  God  for  that ! 
Mrs.  Costello  threw  aside  her  cloak  and  knelt  down  at  the 
side  of  the  cot.  She  prayed,  but  not  in  words.  She  prayed 
with  her  whole  being,  and  in  her  prayer  there  was  immense 
entreaty. 

The  hours  slowly  dragged  themselves  around,  but  Mrs. 
Costello  was  not  conscious  of  them.  She  was  quite  un 
mindful  of  herself.  All  her  thought  was  concentrated  upon 
Robert.  She  was  trying  with  all  the  force  of  her  large  will 
to  penetrate  the  deathlike  stupor  and  to  bring  Robert  life. 

A  slight  movement  in  the  cot  back  of  her  attracted  Mrs. 
Costello's  attention.  She  turned  to  see  if  she  could  be  of 
any  service.  An  old  Irishwoman  was  lying  there.  She  was 
trying  to  be  very  still,  but  she  was  restless  in  spite  of  her 
self.  Her  small  bright  eyes  watched  Mrs.  Costello's  every 
movement. 

Mrs.  Costello  went  over  to  the  cot  and  took  the  woman's 
hand.  "  Are  you  much  hurt  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  dunno,  mum,  I  'm  sure.  There  's  something  awful 
funny  the  matter  with  my  legs.  But  I  wish,  mum,  I  was 
more  hurt  'n  I  am,  mum.  I  do  indeed,  mum,  fur  p'haps 
that  beautiful  young  gentleman  would  n't  'a'  got  hurt  at 
all,  then." 

The  woman  spoke  in  a  low  voice  that  could  hardly  dis 
turb  any  one,  so  Mrs.  Costello  said,  "  Tell  me  about  it, 
please,  if  it  won't  tire  you  too  much." 

398 


THE  NAKED   HORSEMAN 


It  was  evidently  a  great  relief  to  the  poor  old  soul  to 
talk,  and  she  needed  no  second  invitation.  "  I  ought  n't 
to  have  been  in  that  car  at  all,  at  all,  mum.  I  knowed  that 
right  well.  Before  I  come  away  from  home,  me  auld  man 
says  to  me,  says  he,  '  You  're  a  great  hand  fur  traveling 
Bridget  O'Leary,'  says  he,  '  and  fur  spendin'  your  money 
on  them  corporation  railroads.  But  mind  what  I  'm  tellin' 
you  now,'  says  he,  '  if  you  want  to  come  safe  out  of  it  all. 
Don't  you  go  and  set  in  the  last  car  of  the  train,  nor  in 
the  forwardest  car  neither,  fur  if  there  be  any  accident, 
them  is  the  very  cars  as  is  most  likely  to  get  smashed  up. 
Now  mind  what  I  'm  a-tellin'  you.'  It  was  clever  in  him, 
mum,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Costello  said  that  it  was,  and  Mrs.  O'Leary  con 
tinued  :  "I  bided  his  words,  mum,  but  the  saints  forgive 
me,  I  did  n't  act  up  to  'em.  I  got  into  the  other  car,  mum, 
but  it  was  crowded  with  people,  and  it  do  tire  a  body  so 
to  stand.  I  had  a  satchel  too,  mum,  that  I  dasent  put 
down  onto  the  floor,  for  the  auld  man  would  never  'a'  for 
give  me  if  I  'd  gone  and  let  it  got  stole.  I  ought  n't  to 
have  gone  into  that  car,  mum,  fur  me  auld  man's  words 
was  still  in  me  ears,  but  I  thought  I  'd  jist  chance  it  fur 
oncet,  and  really,  mum,  a  body  ought  to  take  their  turn 
once  in  a  while,  fur  if  nobody  set  in  them  two  cars,  the  cor 
poration  railroad  would  take  'em  off,  they  're  that  mean, 
mum !  I  was  up  and  down  oneasy  when  the  train  took 
to  restin'  so  long  between  them  stytions.  But  it  would  'a' 
looked  sort  o'  dafty  fur  me  to  get  out.  I  was  jist  settin' 
there  peaceable  when  I  heard  a  rushin'  noise.  I  turned 
around,  mum,  and  there  was  a  locomotive  engine  comin' 
down  the  aisle."  Mrs.  Costello  shuddered.  "  It  was  jist 

399 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


awful,  mum,  jist  awful,  and  all  the  folks  a-yellin'  bloody 
murder.  I  'd  'a'  gone  to  glory  then  and  there,  mum,  if  it 
had  n't  'a'  been  fur  that  beautiful  young  gentleman  lyin' 
there.  Is  he  your  son,  mum  ?  " 

Mrs.  Costello  shook  her  head. 

"  I  'm  glad  o'  that.  I  thought  p'rhaps  he  was.  He  held 
back  just  a  minute,  mum,  and  gave  me  the  chanst  of  me 
life.  I  was  tossed  like  a  bag  o'  praties  down  the  aisle  and 
through  the  doors  into  the  next  car  where  I  rightly  be 
longed.  I  must  have  landed  on  me  knees,  mum,  fur  there 's 
something  awful  funny  the  matter  with  me  legs.  But  I 
wish  fur  a  fact,  mum,  that  that  there  beautiful  young  gen 
tlemen  had  been  in  me  place.  I  have  n't  many  more  years 
to  live  anyway,  and  me  auld  man  could  'a'  got  along  with 
out  me  fur  a  little  while,  he 's  that  handy  about  the  house." 

Mrs.  Costello  felt  grateful  to  the  poor  old  woman  for 
giving  her  this  simple  account  of  Robert's  heroism.  She 
said  kindly,  "  Thank  you,  my  dear,  for  telling  me  about 
it.  I  think  you  ought  not  to  talk  any  more  now." 

Mrs.  Costello  had  all  the  while  been  watching  Robert. 
She  kept  her  eyes  on  his  face.  It  seemed  as  if  such  con 
centrated  will-power  must  drive  back  the  Angel  of  Death, 
and  win  Robert  once  more  to  life.  The  young  doctor  had 
said  that  everything  that  could  be  done  was  already  done, 
and  nothing  remained  but  to  wait.  Dr.  Babcock  did  not 
arrive,  —  Mrs.  Mason  had  evidently  failed  to  reach  him. 
From  time  to  time  some  poor  tortured  body  ceased  to  live, 
and  a  spirit  took  its  flight.  The  stillness  of  the  night  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  weeping.  Mrs.  Costello  was  not 
herself  conscious  of  fatigue  or  of  any  other  bodily  sensa 
tion,  but  she  responded  with  painful  readiness  to  the  in- 

400 


THE   NAKED   HORSEMAN 


tense  spiritual  drama  going  on  about  her.  She  was  battling 
for  a  life,  for  Robert's  life.  Could  she  have  had  him  alone, 
she  felt  that  she  must  win ;  but  here  in  the  midst  of  this 
lingering  flight  of  souls,  the  conflict  was  against  tremen 
dous  odds.  Mrs.  Costello  felt  that  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  something  more  powerful  than  herself.  She  knew  with 
out  any  word  from  the  young  doctor  that  Robert  wavered 
between  two  worlds,  the  world  of  the  living  and  the  world 
of  the  dead.  She  thought  of  his  own  curious  expression, 
"  the  horizon  beyond  which  there  is  everything,"  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  he  stood  on  the  brink,  a  long  way  off, 
and  that  unless  some  detaining  hand,  stronger  than  her 
own,  reached  out  to  him,  he  must  inevitably  slip  over  the 
brink  of  that  horizon  into  the  eternal  enlightenment. 

The  night  wore  on.  There  was  no  visible  change.  The 
young  doctor  came  at  frequent  intervals.  Each  time  he 
felt  Robert's  pulse.  It  was  growing  perceptibly  weaker. 
Mrs.  Costello  no  longer  asked  the  doctor's  opinion.  She 
knew  that  he  was  powerless.  She  herself  yielded  no  point 
in  this  duel  with  Death.  She  knew  that  she  fought  single- 
handed  in  this  alien  atmosphere,  but  she  felt  that  if  she 
could  but  penetrate  Robert's  stupor  and  arouse  his  own 
will  to  live,  the  victory  might  still  be  theirs.  She  allowed 
herself  no  illusions.  She  knew  full  well  how  very  feeble 
that  will  was  at  best,  and  she  had  to  admit  to  herself  that 
perhaps  it  had  now  gone  out  altogether.  Mrs.  Costello's 
intuitions  told  her  that  if  this  were  the  case,  her  own  fight 
must  be  unavailing. 

The  window  by  Robert's  cot  faced  the  east.  As  the 
hour  advanced,  faint  streaks  of  light  shot  across  the  east 
ern  sky.  The  splendor  spread  and  deepened,  pressing 

401 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


back  the  encircling  darkness.  It  was  the  world-old  drama 
of  Day  conquering  Night.  Mrs.  Costello  was  never  insen 
sible  to  its  beauty.  It  seemed  to  her  always  the  promise 
of  still  greater  light  in  the  spirit.  She  glanced  out  of  the 
window.  Though  her  heart  was  very  heavy,  she  felt  re 
freshed  and  uplifted  by  the  glory  of  the  coming  day. 

When  Mrs.  Costello  turned  once  more  to  Robert,  she 
was  surprised  to  see  that  his  eyes  were  open.  She  bent 
over  him  eagerly.  A  lovely  smile  illuminated  Robert's 
face,  and  Mrs.  Costello  knew  that  he  recognized  her.  But 
he  could  not  speak.  For  several  moments  they  gazed  at 
each  other,  two  friends  who  knew  the  truth  and  could 
face  it  unshrinkingly.  Then  Robert's  eyes  looked  beyond 
Mrs.  Costello  into  another  world,  and  about  his  lips  there 
played  the  inscrutable  smile  of  those  who  waken  to  new 
wonders. 

Mrs.  Costello  knelt  at  Robert's  bedside  in  the  attitude 
of  prayer,  a  voiceless  prayer,  in  which  there  was  only  sub 
mission  and  no  entreaty.  When  at  last  she  raised  her  head 
and  looked  at  Robert's  face,  his  eyelids  were  partly  closed, 
the  light  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes,  and  she  knew  the  spirit 
had  wholly  taken  flight. 

With  her  own  hands  Mrs.  Costello  gently  closed  the 
unseeing  eyes  and  crossed  the  unresisting  arms.  Still  she 
knelt  at  Robert's  side,  her  heart  full  of  mother  grief  at 
the  passing  of  this,  her  almost  son.  Then  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

When  Mrs.  Costello  once  more  regained  her  composure, 
she  arose  and  lightly  touched  Robert's  forehead  with  her 
lips.  Very  softly  she  repeated  those  wonderful  words  of 
St.  Francis :  — 

402 


THE  NAKED   HORSEMAN 


"  Blessed  be  my  Lord  for  our  sister,  the  death  of  the 
body,  from  whom  no  man  escapeth. 

"  Blessed  are  they  who  are  found  walking  by  thy  most 
holy  will,  for  the  second  death  shall  have  no  power  to  do 
them  harm. 

"  Praise  ye  and  bless  ye  the  Lord,  and  give  thanks  unto 
Him,  and  serve  Him  with  great  humility." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SAPPHO'S  FINAL  JUDGMENT 

Two  weeks  had  passed  since  Robert's  death.  It  was  in 
the  late  afternoon,  and  Mrs.  Costello  sat  before  the  fire  in 
the  big  drawing-room,  knitting.  Katie  had  lighted  all  the 
lamps.  There  were  flowers  on  the  table  near  the  window, 
and  in  the  bowl  on  top  of  the  carved  Indian  cabinet.  A 
single  rose  stood  in  a  vase  on  the  prie-dieu  in  the  tiny 
oratory.  Mrs.  Costello  was  dressed  for  dinner.  She  had 
put  on  her  rarest  lace  and  her  choicest  jewels.  In  her  face 
there  were  no  visible  traces  of  sorrow.  There  were  no  signs 
of  mourning  about  the  well-lighted  and  flower-bedecked 
room. 

It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Costello  felt  no  sorrow,  or  that  her 
household  had  ceased  to  mourn.  But  Alicia  was  coming 
home,  and  in  her  honor  there  were  to  be  only  smiles 
and  rejoicing.  The  steamer  was  due  that  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Costello  had  not  trusted  herself  to  go  to  the  steamer. 
She  knew  that  Alicia  had  not  heard  of  the  accident,  and 
would  naturally  inquire  about  Robert.  So  kind  Mrs. 
Mason  was  delegated  to  meet  Alicia,  and  to  make  such 
non-committal  replies  to  all  Alicia's  inquiries  as  would 
leave  her  in  happy  ignorance.  Mrs.  Costello  knew  that 
she  could  trust  Mrs.  Mason's  tactfulness,  and  with  Alicia 
quite  unsuspicious  of  bad  news,  it  would  be  possible  to 
keep  the  first  hours  of  her  home-coming  free  from  gloom 
and  unhappiness.  But  it  would  not  be  easy.  Just  how 
difficult  it  was  going  to  be,  Mrs.  Costello  began  to  realize 

404 


SAPPHO'S  FINAL  JUDGMENT 

as  she  sat  there  waiting  for  Alicia.  In  spite  of  her  con 
trary  resolution,  Mrs.  Costello  could  not  keep  her  mind 
from  dwelling  upon  that  other  afternoon  when  she  had  sat 
there  before  the  fire  waiting  for  Robert,  and  he  had  not 
come. 

At  last  it  became  intolerable.  Mrs.  Costello  put  aside 
her  knitting,  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the  drawing- 
room.  The  arduous  discipline  of  years  had  not  sufficed  to 
reconcile  her  to  Robert's  death.  She  was  not  rebellious, 
but  there  was  some  subtle  element  in  the  tragedy  which 
she  could  not  explain  to  herself.  It  haunted  her  spirit,  and 
kept  it  from  consenting  to  the  event  with  that  large  free 
dom  which  she  commonly  brought  to  bear  upon  the  daily 
drama  of  living. 

Mrs.  Costello  questioned  whether  she  had  not  under 
taken  too  difficult  a  part,  and  whether,  after  all,  it  was  not 
foolish  and  uncalled  for  to  have  gone  to  such  elaborations 
in  order  to  shield  Alicia  from  what  would  probably  be  to 
her  a  mere  passing  shadow.  Robert  had  been  a  pleasant 
element  in  their  life  at  Cocumella,  but  that  was  seven 
months  past,  and  since  then  Alicia  had  seen  many  people 
and  many  places,  and  had  had  a  reasonable  chance  to 
forget  Robert.  It  might  have  been  better  to  have  Mrs. 
Mason  tell  Alicia  as  they  drove  out  from  the  steamer,  or 
even  to  have  gone  herself.  So  Mrs.  Costello  reasoned,  and 
yet  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  if  she  had  it  all  to  do  over 
again,  she  would  do  precisely  the  same  thing. 

It  was  after  six  when  the  carriage  finally  drove  around 
the  side  of  the  house  and  stopped  in  front  of  the  large 
south  door.  Mrs.  Costello  ran  down  the  staircase,  and  in  a 
moment  Alicia  was  in  her  arms,  —  Alicia,  radiant  with  life 

405 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


and  health  and  happiness.  Mrs.  Costello  finally  released 
herself  from  Alicia's  embrace,  and  held  the  girl  off  at 
arm's  length.  "  Let  me  look  at  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "  How 
splendid  you  are,  and  how  good  it  is  to  have  you  back 
again !  Come  in  by  the  fire  and  get  warm.  I  must  have 
one  good  long  look  at  you  before  I  let  you  go  upstairs." 

Mrs.  Costello  kept  Alicia's  hand  in  hers,  and  led  her  up 
the  half-flight  to  the  drawing-room.  They  moved  towards 
the  fireplace.  But  Alicia  was  not  cold.  She  was  too  pleas 
antly  excited  to  stop  in  any  one  spot.  She  made  the  tour 
of  the  drawing-room  several  times,  peeped  into  the  oratory, 
swept  through  the  Italian  room  and  the  dining-room,  went 
out  in  the  kitchen  to  speak  to  Katie  and  the  other  servants, 
and  even  proposed  an  expedition  across  the  garden  to  the 
studio  house.  But  Mrs.  Costello  discouraged  this,  as  it 
was  dark  and  cold  there,  she  said,  and  Alicia  must  be 
getting  ready  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Costello  smiled  with  quiet 
pleasure  to  see  Alicia's  genuine  delight  in  finding  herself 
once  more  at  home. 

"  It  is  just  as  it  used  to  be,"  cried  Alicia, "  but  prettier 
than  ever.  I  expected  to  find  everything  topsy-turvy  now 
that  you  have  a  man  in  the  house.  It  was  very  uncivil  in 
Mr.  Pendexter  not  to  come  to  the  steamer  and  help  me 
through  the  custom-house.  I  shall  tell  him  so  at  dinner, 
and  ask  if  Boston  has  frozen  his  manners." 

Mrs.  Costello  stood  aghast,  but  fortunately  Alicia  was 
not  looking  at  her.  Alicia  was  looking  at  herself  in  an 
old  oval  mirror,  and  arranging  a  stray  lock  of  hair.  Mrs. 
Costello  said  with  some  difficulty,  "  Mr.  Pendexter  will 
not  dine  with  us  to-night,  dear." 

Alicia  wheeled  around  incredulously.  "Not  even  dine 
406 


SAPPHO'S   FINAL  JUDGMENT 

with  me,  when  I  've  just  got  home !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  That 's 
more  uncivil  still.  What  ever  has  come  over  the  man? 
You  have  n't  quarreled  with  him,  have  you,  Carissima,  and 
packed  him  off  to  those  cousins  at  Bolton  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Mrs.  Costello,  trying  to  smile.  "  But 
really,  Alicia  dear,  you  must  get  ready  for  dinner.  Do  go, 
and  after  dinner  we  '11  talk  about  everybody  and  every 
thing  under  the  sun." 

Reluctantly  Alicia  went  up  to  dress.  Mrs.  Costello  did 
not  offer  to  go  with  her,  for  she  felt  unequal  to  answering 
any  more  questions.  She  took  up  her  knitting  and  busied 
herself  as  best  she  could. 

When  Alicia  came  downstairs,  Mrs.  Costello  kissed  her 
affectionately.  "How  beautiful  you  are,  dear!"  she  ex 
claimed,  in  genuine  admiration.  "  And  how  becoming  the 
new  gown  !  I  think  the  sea  air  agrees  with  you." 

Alicia  put  her  arms  around  the  older  woman.  "  It 's  not 
the  sea  air,  Carissima,"  she  said  ;  "  it 's  getting  home  !  " 

But  the  dinner  was  difficult.  There  were  only  the  three 
women,  and  two  of  them  were  acting  a  part.  Mrs.  Costello 
asked  after  all  their  English  friends,  even  the  most  casual 
of  them,  and  Mrs.  Mason  filled  in  every  conversational  gap 
with  almost  nervous  haste.  At  last  the  dinner  came  to  an 
end  and  the  ladies  returned  to  the  drr  wing-room. 

Alicia  slipped  her  arm  through  Mrs.  Costello's.  "  Now 
you  must  tell  me  about  Mr.  Pendexter,"  she  said.  "  I 
simply  won't  be  put  off  any  longer." 

Mrs.  Mason  discreetly  went  upstairs,  and  Katie  closed 
the  folding-doors  into  the  dining-room.  The  two  friends 
were  alone. 

"  Shall  we  sit  here  before  the  fire,  dear  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
407 


THE  LIGHTED  LAMP 


Costello.  "  But  first  I  must  speak  to  Katie."  She  opened 
the  door  into  the  dining-room.  "  Katie." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  If  any  one  calls  this  evening,  say  that  I  am  engaged. 
In  case  the  matter  is  important,  Mrs.  Mason  will  attend 
to  it  in  the  Italian  room.  Remember  that  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  disturbed." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

When  Mrs.  Costello  turned  back  into  the  drawing-room, 
Alicia  was  standing  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  fire.  Her 
shoulders  were  thrown  back,  and  her  face  was  slightly  up 
turned.  She  seemed  the  embodiment  of  youth  and  beauty. 
Could  Stephen  have  seen  her  to-night,  he  would  have 
said,  with  Donald,  that  she  was  certainly  under  twenty- 
five.  Alicia  made  Mrs.  Costello  sit  in  her  accustomed 
chair.  Then  she  brought  herself  a  low  stool  and  sat  with 
her  arms  resting  on  Mrs.  Costello's  lap. 

"  Now  tell  me  all  about  Mr.  Pendexter,  Carissima," 
Alicia  said,  her  face  rich  in  tell-tale  color.  "Do  you 
guess  why  I  am  so  anxious  to  know?  It  is  because  I 
love  him,  dear,  love  him,  and  have  come  home  to  tell 
him  so!" 

Mrs.  Costello  caught  her  breath  in  a  dry  sob.  Her  task 
was  to  be  a  hundred  times  more  difficult  than  she  had 
imagined. 

Alicia  started  at  the  change  in  Mrs.  Costello's  face, 
and  grasped  her  hand  appealingly.  "Tell  me  quickly," 
she  said.  "  Is  there  anything  wrong  with  Robert  ?  Is  he 
ill?  Why  was  he  not  here  to-night?  " 

Mrs.  Costello  leaned  over  and  put  her  arms  around  Ali 
cia.  "  My  poor  child  !  "  she  said.  "  My  poor  child  !  " 

403 


SAPPHO'S  FINAL  JUDGMENT 

Alicia  pulled  herself  away  and  demanded  almost  fiercely, 
« Is  Robert  dead  ?  TeU  me,  —  is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Alicia,  Robert  is  dead." 

"Oh,  my  God,  my  God!"  moaned  Alicia.  Then  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  friend's  lap  and  wept  passionately. 

Mrs.  Costello  had  never  seen  Alicia  so  moved.  It  was 
difficult  to  retain  her  own  composure.  She  did  not  attempt 
to  comfort  the  girl  by  any  spoken  word.  She  smoothed 
the  beautiful  sunny  hair  and  from  time  to  time  gently 
pressed  the  grief-clenched  hands.  Almost  in  a  whisper 
Mrs.  Costello  breathed  the  comforting  words  of  the 
Gita:  "Those  who  are  wise  in  spiritual  things  grieve 
neither  for  the  dead  nor  for  the  living.  I  myself  never  was 
not,  nor  thou,  nor  all  the  princes  of  the  earth  ;  nor  shall  we 
hereafter  cease  to  be."  Gently  she  stroked  Alicia's  hair, 
and  poured  into  her  troubled  spirit  such  comfort  as  she 
could. 

When  Alicia's  tears  were  somewhat  spent,  she  asked 
Mrs.  Costello  pitifully  to  tell  her  all  she  possibly  could 
about  Robert.  She  would  hear  no  detail  about  the  acci 
dent  beyond  the  fact  that  Robert  had  given  his  life  for 
another's,  but  she  wanted  to  know  about  his  life  during 
the  short  weeks  that  he  had  been  at  Mrs.  Costello's.  "  Did 
you  know  that  Robert  loved  me,  and  wanted  to  marry 
me  ?  "  Alicia  asked  almost  shyly. 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  so  ?  "  Alicia  asked  eagerly. 

"  Not  in  words,  dear.  I  think  he  would  not  have  spoken 
to  any  one  about  so  sacred  an  experience." 

"But  are  you  sure?"  persisted  Alicia.  "How  did  you 
know,  Carissima  ?  Tell  me  truly,  for  it  would  break  my 

409 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


heart  to  think  that,  after  all,  I  was  mistaken,  and  that 
Kobert  did  not  love  me." 

"  You  may  feel  perfectly  sure  of  Robert's  love,  Alicia. 
I  saw  it  at  Cocumella.  And  especially  I  saw  it  at  Naples, 
when  we  left  him  standing  there  on  the  pier.  He  had  a 
very  tell-tale  face,  you  remember.  Robert  loved  you  heart 
and  soul,  dear.  He  could  not  have  said  it  more  plainly 
in  words.  It  pained  me  deeply,  for  I  did  n't  think  you 
cared  for  him." 

"  I  did  n't  care,  —  at  least  not  then,"  said  Alicia.  "  That 
is  a  part  of  the  misery  of  it.  I  thought  of  him  often,  but 
only  in  connection  with  some  little  incident  of  our  life  at 
Cocumella." 

Alicia  stopped  and  looked  wistfully  into  the  fire. 

"  And  when  did  you  begin  to  care,  dear  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Costello,  gently,  for  she  saw  that  it  was  a  relief  to  Alicia 
to  talk  about  Robert. 

"  Not  until  this  autumn.    Not  until  after  you  left  me." 

"  Did  Robert  write? "  asked  Mrs.  Costello. 

"  No,  not  once.  I  never  had  a  letter  from  him.  You 
remember  Lord  Whittlesea,  the  young  man  we  met  down 
in  Devonshire  and  that  you  rather  liked?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Costello;  "I  remember  him  very 
well." 

"  When  I  was  with  the  Conynghams,  he  got  himself 
invited  down  for  a  week-end." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  whispered  Mrs.  Costello,  encouragingly. 

"  We  were  very  good  friends,  you  know,  and  I  thought 
he  was  safe  from  any  notion  of  love-making.  But  before 
I  could  prevent  it,  he  had  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

"  I  cannot  wonder  at  it,  dear  Alicia,"  said  Mrs.  Cos- 
410 


SAPPHO'S   FINAL  JUDGMENT 

tello,  indulgently.    "  If  1  had  been  Lord  Whittlesea,  I 
should  have  asked  you  long  before." 

Alicia  ignored  the  gentle  flattery,  too  sad  and  too  busy 
with  her  own  thoughts  to  heed  much  else. 

"  I  felt  dreadfully  about  it.  I  had  been  friendly,  but 
that  was  all.  I  never  even  thought  of  his  falling  in  love 
with  me.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  a  girl  had  only 
herself  to  blame  for  it  if  she  let  a  man  propose  to  her. 
I  was  afraid  that  quite  unconsciously  I  had  given  Lord 
Whittlesea  some  encouragement." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  you  had  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  You  have  nothing  to  blame  yourself  for." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  have,"  answered  Alicia,  with  an 
air  of  conviction.  "  I  asked  Lord  Whittlesea  if  I  had  ever 
encouraged  him  in  the  least  little  bit,  and  he  said  not." 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,  Alicia,  and  he  would  say  that  any 
way.  But  I  should  have  expected  him  to  be  more  per 
sistent,  and  also  perhaps  to  win.  He  seemed  to  me  a  very 
attractive  man,  and  quite  above  the  average." 

"  He  is.  He  is  a  thoroughly  fine  fellow,  and  he  was 
very  nice  and  manly  about  it.  He  asked  if  he  might  try 
to  make  me  care  for  him, —  if  there  were  any  one  else, 
any  obstacle  —  "  Alicia  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
wept  bitterly. 

Mrs.  Costello  leaned  over  and  kissed  the  girl.  "  Yes, 
dear  ?  "  she  said  once  more. 

"  And  then,"  sobbed  Alicia,  "  I  knew  there  was  some 
one  else,  that  it  was  Robert !  "  Alicia  raised  her  face  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Costello  eagerly.  "  How  did  you  feel,  Caris- 
sima,"  she  whispered,  "  when  Leon  Costello  first  told  you 
that  he  loved  you  ?  " 

411 


THE  LIGHTED   LAMP 


A  beautiful  smile  swept  over  Mrs.  Costello's  face,  and 
pushed  back  the  weight  of  years.  "  I  felt,  Alicia,  that  I 
had  been  taken  to  a  new  world." 

"  It  was  so  with  me,"  said  Alicia,  simply.  "  I  had  not 
thought  of  Robert  until  that  moment,  and  since  then  I 
have  thought  of  nothing  else." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  each  woman  busy  with  her  own 
thoughts.  Then  Alicia  said :  "  I  don't  think  love  is  blind. 
When  I  chose  Robert,  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  Lord 
Whittlesea  was  younger  and  stronger  and  better-looking, 
that  he  had  a  more  assured  social  background  and  belonged 
much  more  to  our  world  than  Robert  did.  It  surprised  me 
that  I  should  think  of  those  things  at  such  a  moment.  But 
I  did.  And  yet  I  chose  Robert." 

"  I  wonder  why  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Costello,  wishing  to 
keep  Alicia  talking. 

"  It  was  Robert's  wonderful  spirit.  He  was  really  a 
little  mouse  of  a  man,  —  it  seems  very  cold-blooded,  but  I 
told  myself  that  quite  frankly.  He  would  have  looked  very 
drab  alongside  of  Lord  Whittlesea.  It  would  have  hurt 
me  to  see  them  together.  I  thought  how  odd  it  would  have 
looked  to  see  them  both  on  horseback.  But  Robert  was  on 
fire.  I  knew  that  I  had  but  to  think,  and  he  would  know 
what  I  was  thinking  about.  With  Lord  Whittlesea,  I 
should  have  had  to  spell  it  all  out." 

"  I  think  you  are  hardly  fair  to  Lord  Whittlesea,"  said 
Mrs.  Costello.  "  But  Robert,  as  you  say,  was  on  fire,  — 
a  very  unusual  spirit.  I  got  to  be  very  fond  of  him  during 
the  few  weeks  that  he  was  here.  He  seemed  almost  like  a 
son.  He  was  always  so  helpful  and  considerate.  With  all 
his  inexperience,  you  know  he  had  very  good  manners. 

412 


SAPPHO'S   FINAL  JUDGMENT 

He  had  his  little  awkwardnesses,  but  somehow  they  did 
not  offend.  And  he  was  surprisingly  observant.  He  made 
mistakes,  but  he  seldom  repeated  them." 

"  I  noticed  that  at  Cocumella,"  said  Alicia.  "  How  did 
he  get  on  with  his  work  ?  " 

44  Well,  I  don't  know  what  progress  he  made,  but  he 
was  a  great  worker.  It  steadied  us  all  to  have  him  in  the 
house.  I  knew  that  it  would.  His  visit,  dear,  was  a  per 
fect  success.  There  was  not  a  blemish  in  it !  " 

"Why  did  he  die,  then?"  asked  Alicia,  hotly.  "  It 
seems  a  hideous,  unnecessary  blow  to  both  of  us ! " 

14 1  felt  that  it  was  hideous  and  unnecessary  at  first,  Ali 
cia.  When  I  knew  that  he  was  in  danger,  I  fought  almost 
fiercely  for  his  life." 

44  And  don't  you  feel  so  now?  Don't  you  feel  that  it 
was  cruel  and  unnecessary  for  him  to  die  now,  —  now 
when  there  was  such  special  reason  for  his  living?  Tell 
me  truly.  Can  you  feel  that  there  was  any  reason  or  san 
ity  in  Robert's  death?  If  I  could  feel  sure  of  that,  it 
might  help  to  reconcile  me  to  it." 

44  It  will  take  time,  dear,  for  you  to  be  able  to  see  it  in 
such  a  light.  I  have  done  little  but  think  about  Robert 
since  his  death.  Not  only  have  I  missed  him  sadly,  but  it 
has  seemed  essential  for  me  to  understand  his  death,  to 
consent  to  it  in  the  full  freedom  of  the  spirit.  It  has 
not  been  easy,  Alicia,  and  your  coming  home  and  telling 
me  what  you  have,  has  made  it  still  more  difficult.  It 
has  added  another  tremendous  fact  to  be  accounted  for 
and  reconciled.  I  have  been  completely  overwhelmed  this 
evening,  dear,  and  I  have  talked,  I  am  afraid,  almost 
incoherently,  for  my  mind  has  been  so  dreadfully  con- 

413 


THE   LIGHTED  LAMP 


fused.  But  I  begin  to  see  the  light.  Shall  I  speak  to 
you  quite  unreservedly,  dear  Alicia  ?  Do  you  think  that 
you  can  stand  it  now  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  wait 
until  to-morrow?  " 

Alicia  sat  upright  and  looked  at  her  friend  unfalter 
ingly.  "  No,'*  she  answered  bravely ;  "  speak  now,  and 
speak  as  if  I,  too,  were  dead." 

Mrs.  Costello  leaned  over  and  kissed  Alicia's  forehead. 
"  Happily  you  are  not,  dear,"  she  said  softly.  Still  she 
paused,  for  it  was  terribly  difficult  to  say  what  she  was 
going  to  say.  Finally  she  reached  over  and  took  Alicia's 
two  hands.  "Look  at  me,  Alicia,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
know  how  much  I  love  you,  dear?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Alicia,  almost  inaudibly.  "  You  love 
me  best  of  all  who  are  still  living !  " 

"  Remember  that,  dear.  Remember  it  always,  or  you 
may  hate  me  —  " 

"  I  could  never  do  that,"  Alicia  whispered. 

"  I  am  going  to  say  what  may  seem  to  you  quite  a  ter 
rible  thing,  dear  Alicia,  and  it  is  this,  —  that  in  the 
larger  scheme  of  things,  I  see  clearly  to-night  for  the  first 
time  that  it  is  better  that  Robert  should  have  died ! " 

Alicia  started,  but  she  did  not  draw  her  hands  away, 
nor  did  she  take  her  eyes  off  Mrs.  Costello's  face. 

"  You  know  what  a  marvelous  spirit  Robert  had,"  Mrs. 
Costello  continued.  "  You  know  how  wonderfully  it  ex 
panded  this  past  year.  You  told  me,  you  remember,  how 
astonishingly  crude  Robert  was  on  the  steamer.  At  York 
he  was  so  changed  that  I  rather  chided  you  for  not  having 
presented  him  to  me  earlier.  And  then  at  Cocumella  we 
had  to  get  acquainted  with  him  over  again.  There  was 

414 


SAPPHO'S  FINAL  JUDGMENT 

not  such  a  remarkable  change  in  him  here  at  home,  — 
perhaps  it  was  hardly  possible,  —  but  still  he  had  grown 
perceptibly.  And  now  comes  the  part,  dear  Alicia,  that 
it  has  been  so  hard  for  me  to  see.  Robert  had  reached 
his  earth  limit,  —  he  had  come  to  flower.  It  is  true  that 
he  had  done  nothing  as  yet  in  the  outer  world  of  action. 
But  his  life  has  been  an  inspiration  to  his  friends,  and 
inwardly  he  came  into  his  own.  Had  he  lived,  Robert 
would  have  been  cruelly  disappointed.  Not  even  your 
perfect  love,  Alicia,  could  have  carried  him  much  farther. 
It  would  not  have  been  right  for  him  to  have  married 
you,  dear,  not  in  this  incarnation.  There  are  heights 
before  you  which  Robert  could  not  have  scaled.  But  your 
meeting  was  not  accidental.  You  will  come  together  again. 
For  Robert  is  not  dead,  —  you  know  that,  Alicia,  —  he  is 
at  the  beginning  of  a  new  life.  He  has  simply  cast  aside 
an  inadequate  tool,  that  could  no  longer  serve  his  pur 
pose,  and  is  creating  a  new  tool  for  finer  uses.  For  Rob 
ert  was  inadequate,  Alicia.  Much  as  we  both  love  him, 
we  must  admit  that.  He  had  not  the  organization  for 
great  things.  He  was  over  thirty-five,  and  had  awakened 
very  late,  too  late  to  build  over  his  slender  stock  of  tools. 
As  I  have  thought  about  Robert  since  his  death,  I  have 
much  doubted  whether  his  intelligence  was  at  all  equal  to 
the  tasks  he  planned  for  himself.  His  spirit  came  to  be 
so  big  that,  when  he  was  here,  I  lost  sight  of  these  ter 
rible  limitations.  I  encouraged  him  to  try  the  impossible. 
God  knew  better,  and  in  his  mercy  turned  defeat  into 
victory.  Can  you  see  it  so,  Alicia,  —  can  you  see  that  it 
would  have  been  a  tragedy  had  Robert  lived  ?  He  could 
not,  I  think,  have  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  that  is  always 

415 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


a  terrible  tragedy.  He  went  about  his  tasks  with  tre 
mendous  industry.  He  was  a  man,  Alicia,  in  spite  of  his 
slender  physique,  and,  as  the  accident  proved,  capable  of 
the  heroic.  But  he  had  not  the  materials  to  build  with. 
He  himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  find  it  out.  That 
would  have  been  the  tragedy.  I  doubt  whether  he  could 
have  stood  it.  As  it  was,  he  went  still  believing  in  his 
own  powers,  —  or  at  least  still  hopeful,  for  I  think  that 
he  already  had  some  misgivings.  I  believe  that  the  will  to 
live  died  before  the  accident  came.  At  the  hospital  I  could 
not  reach  Robert's  will.  Could  we  have  worked  together, 
I  feel  that  he  might  have  lived.  But  I  was  fighting  single- 
handed,  and  I  could  not  prevail.  Eobert  went,  however, 
carrying  the  wonderful  part  about  him  with  him,  —  the 
spirit,  —  and  leaving  behind  him  only  the  inadequate 
organs  of  the  earth  life.  Robert  had  still  much  to  learn 
here.  I  think  that  he  will  come  back.  If  the  choice  is  his, 
I  think  that  he  will  want  to  come  back  and  serve  the  world 
in  some  large  way.  Have  I  at  all  made  you  feel  that  Rob 
ert's  death  is  right,  dear,  or  have  I  only  seemed  cruel?" 

"  You  are  never  cruel,  Carissima.  It  is  destiny  that  is 
so  cruel,  so  needlessly  cruel." 

"  In  what  way,  dear,  —  surely  not  in  giving  Robert 
this  greater  chance,  and  sparing  him  the  bitterness  of  an 
unavoidable  defeat  ?  " 

"No,  not  cruel  to  him,  perhaps,  but  cruel  to  me  in 
dragging  me  in  so  needlessly.  Why  did  Lord  Whittlesea 
propose  to  me?  Why  did  my  thought  turn  to  Robert 
after  so  many  months  ?  Why  did  I  fly  across  the  ocean 
to  tell  him  of  my  love,  only  to  find  this,  —  to  find  him 
dead  !  " 

416 


SAPPHO'S   FINAL  JUDGMENT 

In  Alicia's  protest  there  was  a  tone  of  utter  despair. 
But  Mrs.  Costello  was  no  longer  dismayed.  The  whole 
situation  had  been  growing  clearer  and  clearer  to  her  as 
she  had  tried  to  phrase  it  for  Alicia.  And  now  it  seemed 
to  her  divinely  right.  She  spoke  patiently  and  with  that 
air  of  certitude  which  Alicia  had  come  to  recognize  and 
respect. 

"  Think,  dear  Alicia,  of  what  your  love  has  meant  to 
Robert,  of  how  it  helped  him  to  meet  death  worthily. 
Think  of  the  joy  and  courage  it  gives  him  in  seeking  new 
entrance  into  action.  And  for  yourself,  dear,  would  you 
give  up  this  love  if  you  could  ?  Would  you  pluck  it  out 
of  your  life?  With  all  the  pain,  aren't  you  a  richer 
woman  for  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Alicia.  "  I  suppose  the  pain  will  die. 
I  know  the  love  will  live.  But  oh,  dear  Mrs.  Costello,  if 
I  might  only  have  told  Robert  with  my  own  lips,  have 
given  him  one  kiss  before  he  died,  I  think  I  could  meet 
it  all!" 

Mrs.  Costello  pressed  Alicia's  hand,  and  the  two  women 
sat  together  in  silence.  At  last  Mrs.  Costello  arose.  "  It 
is  very  late,  dear,"  she  said.  "  Shall  we  not  go  to  bed  ?  " 

Alicia  got  up  wearily  and  went  with  Mrs.  Costello 
towards  the  staircase. 

"  We  have  forgotten  the  flowers,"  said  Mrs.  Costello, 
turning  back  a  moment.  "  Won't  you  take  them  up  to 
the  bathroom,  dear,  and  put  them  in  water?  Then  they 
will  be  fresh  again  to-morrow.  I  must  speak  to  Katie 
before  I  come  up." 

For  the  last  two  weeks,  Mrs.  Costello  had  avoided  pass 
ing  through  the  Italian  room.  It  had  seemed  to  her  quite 

417 


THE   LIGHTED   LAMP 


impossible.  But  to-night  she  went  that  way  from  choice. 
The  room  was  just  as  Kobert  had  left  it.  His  books  and 
papers  were  still  about.  Mrs.  Costello  went  over  to  the 
writing-table  and  knelt  there  for  some  moments.  "  Dear 
Robert ! "  she  whispered.  "  Dear  son !  I  am  content.  In 
the  full  freedom  of  the  spirit,  I  do  consent  to  this,  your 
death.  It  shall  not  be  the  night  with  us,  when  with  you 
it  is  the  dawn  !  " 


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